221C Baker Street
by Veritasa
Summary: Rebekah Scott's arrival in Mrs. Hudson's basement apartment is just another thing to notice, another woman for John to date and lose, and another extraordinary tenant for 221 Baker Street to help Sherlock relieve his boredom.
1. 221C Baker Street

"Here we are, dear. 221C. It's a nice place, and the basement means you'll have quite a bit of privacy." Mrs. Hudson fiddled with the window latch, but it was a little too high for her to reach. The other woman reached over her from the right to flick the lock open. The older woman smiled and finished opening the window. "There now, you see? Lots of light. And when you have the fireplace going, it's downright cozy." She fanned herself. "In the winter that is. No one in their right mind is thinking of cozy during a heat wave like this."

"It always pays to think ahead, Mrs. Hudson. And I can imagine with a nice armchair in front of the fireplace, it will be quite cozy indeed come a stormy winter's night." The woman with the tight brown ponytail blew a stray lock out of her face as she took measured paces around the foyer. "And of course the location can't be beaten. Central London is a hot spot. I'm amazed you hadn't had this rented out ages ago."

"As I told my renters in B, that's the way with basements. I've just had it cleaned, too. Not a hint of mold or mildew or those things that often plague basement apartments." Mrs. Hudson ran a finger along the mantelpiece, inspected it, and rubbed her fingertips together, apparently pleased that the apartment was still so clean several weeks afterward. "So Mrs. Scott, are you still interested?"

"Very much so," came her response from the bedroom. "Although, you mentioned the tenants in B. I knew you lived in A, but how are the folks in B?"

"Oh, they're wonderful boys, though like most boys they do tend to get a bit rowdy at times. But you won't find a better lot in London, I'd say."

"Coming from you, that's fine praise indeed." She twisted the door handle that led to the corridor, carefully inspecting the lock as the mechanism moved back and forth. "Would you mind terribly if I changed the lock? I'd provide you the master for it, of course. It's just that I've had…problems… at previous flats. It's made me a mite paranoid about my locks, I'm afraid."

"Oh, I can understand that. It wouldn't be much of a problem, I wouldn't think. Just as long as I have a copy of the key."

Mrs. Scott smiled softly. "Then I'll take it. Will Tuesday work for a move-in?"

"It works just fine for me. And I'll tell you what. I'll make a nice dinner on Tuesday evening for you, John, and Sherlock – the boys from B. That way everyone at 221 can get to know each other a bit."

"That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Hudson. I can already tell that I'll feel quite at home here. I can't wait to meet – you said their names were John and Sherlock?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded as she locked the door behind them as they headed up the stairs. "Been here about two years. An interesting lot, though good through to the core. I think you'll get along with them."

"I'm sure I will," Mrs. Scott murmured to herself. As she reached the top of the stairs, she turned her head slightly to the left and winked.

Safely in his apartment, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Surely she hadn't winked at the camera he had been using to ensure security in 221C following the Moriarty incident. There would be no way for her to know that the camera was there. He'd walked Mrs. Hudson and John past it several times, just to be sure that no ordinary eye could detect it.

He sat back in his chair, silently bemused. That was it, then. He quickly added a new event to the calendar in his phone. Tuesday, dinner with Mrs. Hudson. He had a lot of work to do over the weekend.

Rebekah watched the last box enter 221C Baker St with a tired sense of relief. Moving was always exhausting, and she had done so entirely too often in the last few years. She had been in the country most recently, but found herself missing London too much to stay away. She'd met Mr. Chatterjee, who owned the store just next door next to her new flat, at a cricket match,and he'd told her about Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson. Of course, everyone knew who lived in 221B, at least vaguely. Perhaps that contributed to why Mrs. Hudson couldn't find someone to let the flat below. Still, Rebekah didn't mind. Her husband had been a bit of an eccentric as well. She was well used to it.

She opened that last box and pulled out her kettle and teacups. The movers thanked her profusely for the tea and biscuits she provided for them, making light conversation while they rested themselves before heading home for the afternoon. Young men, a little rough, not enough opportunity, but plenty of potential, she thought. As the last one left the flat, she handed him a tin with the remaining biscuits. "For your sisters," she said, nodding at the tin. He frowned in uncertainty. "You mentioned them earlier." Of course he hadn't, but he nodded confusedly, returning her smile.

"Very kind of you, mum. I'm sure they'll appreciate it." He headed out after his cohorts, still smiling.

"Always have to know who's going to be rifling through your things." She stood next to the window, sliding it open with force to get it past the stick halfway through. Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans, she pulled out an old cigarette case. There were three cigarettes left inside. She'd sworn to herself she wouldn't roll another one once she moved in. That left her just enough for one now and one tonight after dinner.

She flicked the lighter with a practiced finger and puffed several times, her peripheral vision just catching the glow of the ash before she reached up to flick it out the window. Her gaze drifted across the room, alighting momentarily on various piles of boxes. There wasn't much – not nearly as much as there had once been, but unpacking was always a daunting task. At least she didn't have to worry about dinner tonight, and she turned her eyes upward in silent blessing for Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm a widow myself," the older woman had said. "But it's heartening to see one so young taking it so well." She'd pursed her lips. "I don't know that I ought to have said that. Apologies, my dear."

Rebekah had pulled the muscles around her lips and eyes just high enough so that she wasn't frowning. She couldn't quite manage a smile. "No, Mrs. Hudson, it's fine. Widowhood is difficult at any age I'd imagine. Always less time than we'd imagined. Never the life we thought we'd be living."

"No, that's certain. Never the life we thought we'd be living." She'd taken a sip from her own tea, looking out the window. Rebekah wondered if Mrs. Hudson had ever seen Florida.

She took another drag off her cigarette. Florida wasn't anything to write home about. Disney was a bore, the rivers were all infested with alligators, the ocean was full of jelly fish, and half the time you were in hiding from a hurricane. She preferred Brighton, and that was saying something.

She really preferred St. Andrews, but that had been brief, and had not ended well. She supposed that she could no longer say she loved it there most. It would be gauche. It would still be true.

She tapped the ashes out the window again, the cigarette halfway gone. She focused on her breaths for a moment, they were deep and long. Relaxed. James would have been proud of her. "You're smart enough to best anyone or anything, Becky. Don't ever let them get your hackles up or unsettle you. You'll get to every conclusion long before they do." He called her Becky. No one else had ever been allowed to.

She let the cigarette hang from her lips while she checked her phone. No new texts – a reminder of how many contacts she'd lost in the past year. She returned it to her pocket, rolling her lips to close around the cigarette. It was 5:19. She was supposed to arrive at Mrs. Hudson's flat at 6:00. She rose up on the balls of her feet and smashed the cigarette out on the brick on the outside edge of the window before tossing it away.

She took the screwdriver out of the same box that had produced the tea kettle earlier, followed by the new door handle and lock. She made quick work of the first one, leaving the second one out for the locksmith who was to come by the next day. She slowly rotated the handle back and forth, several times with her eye on the movement and once or twice with her ear pressed against the door near the handle. "It'll do." She laid the screwdriver on top of the mantle and took out her phone again. No texts, 5:28pm.

She went to the box, took out a blade and opened a large container in the corner, taking out the linens and moving boxes out of the way to her bed. She put the sheets on, fluffed the pillow and laid the blanket at the foot of the bed. In the heat of summer, it wouldn't be of much use to her. She took down the curtain rod and strung the curtains across it as though she'd had practice. She had. It was the third set of windows covered by these curtains, and she'd only picked them up during the winter sales. 5:46.

She stripped off her shirt and jeans, pulling her pony tail holder gently out. A sigh rushed across her lips as she bent over the box to get her outfit for dinner out. She might have showered, but it was too late now. Not that she had really done any of the hard work of the move. The only bag she'd brought in was small enough that she could have been mistaken for a student or weekender. She slipped the dress over her head and it settled with familiarity over her hips. She reached behind her and slowly pulled the zipper up. It was her husband's favorite shade of blue. He had bought it for her at some Parisian boutique the first time he'd left for a business trip after their honeymoon.

She didn't know why she had decided to wear it tonight.

5:54.

She brushed out her hair and touched makeup quickly on. It was too hot for any more primping. She gathered her hair with a pin James had brought her back from Bavaria, a crooked little thing made of oak heartwood. She slipped on a pair of black ballet flats and out the door.

Life in 221C Baker Street was about to begin.


	2. Fool's Mate

Mrs. Hudson lifted the steaming pot off the stove. "Sherlock, will you be a dear and answer that for me? That will be our other guest." Mrs. Hudson had carefully omitted the truth when she'd invited Sherlock, but she had known that he would see through it. Hard to keep things from Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock didn't respond, his eyes glued to the screen in front of him. The Woman had sent him a text again – _Bored. Dinner?_. A dangerous enterprise since she was supposed to be dead. Her phone number was a Scottish cell phone now, and her name wasn't Irene Adler anymore, which made it all the more convenient that he simply called her The Woman. She'd laughed when her told her about that on the trip out of the desert caves where he'd rescued her. Now, it seemed she was growing bored, too. Sherlock had only just begun to exist again, and thank God for that. The Woman would never be able to be Irene Adler again – unless she wanted someone to finish what he'd prevented in Pakistan.

Being no one was dull.

Still, Sherlock's cases were few and far between. The ones that did arrive were usually brilliant distractions, but they were from the few minds cognizant enough to see through Moriarty's schemes, even it was after the fact.

Lastrade wanted him in again, but was working on a way to legitimize his presence. He almost smiled when he saw that Sgt. Donovan had been transferred and Anderson had been relieved of his job after negligence. The Detective Inspector would come through for him yet. The guilt complex he had in his own part in Moriarty's schemes didn't hurt anything. Sherlock didn't blame him, but he would hardly gain anything by telling him that.

When it was apparent that Sherlock wasn't going to be moving, John muttered a curse under his breath. Sherlock had told him there was a new tenant, and it didn't take Sherlock's deductive skills to figure out that this was the woman who had moved into 221C. A widow just back from Scotland, Mrs. Hudson had told them. John was happy that Mrs. Hudson would have someone her own age to watch daytime telly and drink tea with. It would be a nice rest from the insanity that her tenants in 221B put her through.

He opened the door and was thankful for the months of practice trying to hide his expression from Sherlock. It didn't usually work on him, but on most everyone else, John was becoming more and more inscrutable. "Hello," was all he could manage.

"Oh, Mrs. Scott, right on time. I'm just pulling the bread out of the oven. Come in!" Mrs. Hudson set the warm loaf on the rack to cool. "These are the boys from 221B, as I was telling you. That one there's John, and this silent one is Sherlock."

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Scott." He finally stepped back from the door to let her enter, looking at his trainers with chagrin. He hadn't realized this was meant to be a dress up party. Obviously, Sherlock was in his suit, as he always was, and Mrs. Hudson was in a dress, but that was usually the case as well. It had taken the arrival of the beautiful young widow in blue to make him feel the cad.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance as well, John. And please, call me Rebekah." She shook his hand, glancing down to look at his trainers and winking conspiratorially.

Had he thought out loud? That could be a dangerous habit with Sherlock around. No one else seemed to have noticed, and she'd turned her attention Mrs. Hudson by now. Sherlock still hadn't moved from the chair. He looked back down at his trainers as he grabbed his glass of wine from the side table.

"Mrs. Hudson, it smells heavenly all the way to my flat! I hope the movers didn't disturb any of you too much." She glanced at Sherlock, who made fleeting eye contact with her before staring back at his phone and punching out a quick reply. She didn't seem perturbed in the least.

"Not at all my dear. Noise comes with moving. It all went well?" Mrs. Hudson shuffled the roast onto the serving plate, a master at multitasking in the domestic environment.

"Yes. Now just comes all the endless boxes." She laughed and paused at the bottle of wine. "May I?"

"Oh yes, dear. Sherlock, be a dear and hand her the empty glass next to you, will you?"

Sherlock did so absentmindedly. When she reached for the glass, he felt her palm something into his hand. He didn't react, but knew from the feel of it that it was the camera from the top of the stairs – the one she'd winked a few days before. "Thank you, Sherlock." She smiled at him pleasantly, but practically grinned when John appeared next to her to pour her wine. "And John." She sat on one end of the settee. "You have the bearing of a military man and the hands of a doctor. So which is it?"

He sat next to her, sipping his own glass of wine. "Both actually. How'd you tell?"

"Well, your posture was that of a dancer or a military man, and I took the safe guess, all considering. And your hands didn't shake at all when you poured the wine, even at that awkward angle. So possibly a sharpshooter? But you got some iodine on your shoe just there." She pointed at his trainer with her toe. "So doctor was a safe bet, too."

"I feel like I'm sitting with Sherlock. He told me all about myself the first time we met, too." He raised his eyebrows in a question to Sherlock, who met his eyes without responding. "I'm not that good though, so tell me a little about yourself."

"Oh come now John, surely you can see it."

"Sherlock…" said John in warning.

"She's a recent widow, still wears the ring every now and again from the spot on her hand and the friction marks around her finger, not to mention her age. It was on within the last 24 hours, I'm sure."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson jumped in, horrified. John looked ready to jump up and slug the man.

She touched John's arm to calm him. "No, it's alright. I'm actually honored. Go ahead, Sherlock."

He didn't wait for approval from the other two. "Her fingers are still stained with tobacco – she rolls her own cigarettes. The dress doesn't smell of smoke though, so she only smokes occasionally. She used to spend lots of time outdoors by her tan, but she's been inside for the majority of the time for several months. She's well-traveled – dress from Paris, hairpin from Prague, shoes from Milan. Well-to-do as well. So then what is she doing renting a tiny basement flat with barely a window to make it fit for living? Her accent is marked by Scots and her vocabulary is American – she did her studies there before coming back to get married to a Scotsborn husband, if her name didn't give that part away. The base of it is a London accent though. She was born and raised in the city. She's works at a computer, based on the callouses on the outside of her wrists from holding them in terrible posture for typing, along with the way she occasionally has been rubbing her wrist. Intelligence or research would be my guess."

She lifted her glass in salute. "Bravo, Mr. Holmes. You are Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? So few Sherlocks in the phonebook, and I doubt another of them could do what you just did. As I said, it's an honor to be so closely examined by one such as you." She smiled into her wine glass. Sherlock noticed that her hand hadn't left John's arm. Interesting. "You were so close."

He had been content with himself for a moment, having read this woman who picked apart his security so well. "So close?"

"You're doing the repeating thing, Sherlock," said John, chuckling.

"Well, blow by blow. I wear the ring when I go certain places for work to keep unwanted attentions away from me. It was on last night. I was bartending." She took another sip from her glass. He didn't want to believe her. "I do roll my own cigarettes, but I used to more often for my husband. I have never smoked in this dress, because it is annoyingly difficult to remove the smell from silk. I have been to no more places than the usual sort. My husband was the traveler and the one with the fashion sense. Had he not been so damned straight, I would have sworn I was his beard." She looked over Sherlock's shoulder distantly. "I never have been to America, but most of my colleagues are American, and I pick up their speech patterns, I'd imagine. I do spend much of my time at a computer." She stood up and walked around the back of Sherlock's chair. "And I'm not as well-heeled as I once was."

"All the same, Sherlock, cheers. That was a good show." She turned back to the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was smirking as she sliced the bread. "Shall we eat Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, it's all ready my dear. Come and have a seat."

Sherlock stood behind a chair, waiting for everyone else to stop milling about. Rebekah sat next to Mrs. Hudson's chair at the end. John tried to get Sherlock to move, a silent battle that Sherlock was oblivious to. Eventually he sat down across from her. Sherlock slipped the camera into his pocket as he sat down and decided to just observe the meal.

After pie, Mrs. Hudson was making tea, Sherlock was making himself scare, and John and Rebekah were making small talk. Rebekah's eyes found a chess board and she grinned. "John, you wouldn't fancy a game of chess, would you?"

"Oh, I haven't played in ages…"

"Oh. Well, I'd ask Sherlock, but I don't believe that I could withstand the onslaught. He'd probably see the whole game before we'd even settled into our chairs."

She was lying somehow, and Sherlock knew it. He just didn't know how. "Really, you haven't even asked and you're already deifying me."

"You like having your feathers preened a bit, though," she laughed, turning to John as she did so. Sherlock did not like being laughed at.

"Then shall we play? Then, if I win, I will be able to properly preen my feathers, as you put it."

Her face settled into seriousness. "As you please. You don't mind, John? I'm sure it will be a quick end." He nodded and she moved over to a seat closer to the white side of the chess board and moved her pawn E2 to E4. "Your move Mr. Holmes."

He responded in kind, a pawn coming out to attack, F7 to F5.

Her fingers lithely dragged the queen to F3. She didn't look at him.

He moved to defend this time. Pawn to G5. He removed his hand, seeing it a moment too late. Perhaps she wouldn't. If she did anything else, he could still beat her.

"Queen to H5," she murmured, sliding her queen to do exactly that. "Check and mate, I do believe."

"Indeed it is." He was scrutinizing the chess board. It was an amateur mistake. He should have known better.

"You're rusty Sherlock. We'll have to play again sometime. Now that you know how I play." He got the distinct sense she wasn't talking about chess, but it wasn't an invitation to baser things either. She glanced at her phone. 9:49.

She yawned as she stood. "I should really be getting back to my flat. Thank you all for a wonderful evening. John, I expect you to keep up that offer for a cup of coffee sometime soon."

John assented enthusiastically, but he reined it in quickly. "Of course. I'll call you soon."

"Excellent." She stopped by the door. "Oh, and I almost forgot to thank you for your help getting the bugs out of my apartment, Sherlock. Knowing they're there always just creeps me out. Anyway, goodnight all!" She closed the door and they could hear her feet moving quickly down the steps to the basement.

John and Mrs. Hudson stared at him, but Sherlock just looked down at his phone, which had just beeped. _Your move. - RS_


	3. Rules of Engagement

It was 10:32 when Rebekah heard the knock on her door. He was later than she would have thought. Possibly he had waited for John to retire for the evening before coming down. He did care for John Watson, it was obvious. She stood from the armchair on front of the fireplace. She'd managed to arrange enough furniture since dinner to make this little tete a tete possible when Sherlock deigned to visit.

In a fluid motion as she stood, she pulled the cigarette case from her pocket and flipped it open. "It's open," she called, walking to the window."

"You knew it was going to be me." He looked impeccably dressed as always.

She held out the cigarette case to him. "Of course. Who else would come calling to my new flat at this nearly indecent hour? But tell me how you knew."

"The locks. They're new – you've installed the one yourself, and there's another waiting to be installed. You've a mind for security, and wouldn't leave the door open for just anyone."

She waited for his long, cautious fingers to pluck one of the cigarettes from the case, then brought it back and put her own to her lips before tossing the cigarette case onto the side table. "You're not just anyone, are you, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock picked up the matchbook from the table next to the cigarette case. "No, I'm not. But Sherlock will do fine, since it seems that Mrs. Hudson will have us as bosom friends by her hospitality this evening."

"John seems like he'd make a fine friend. He's certainly loyal to you. He looked more surprised and wounded when you lost today than you did."

"I did that intentionally, of course."

"Forgive the crass American, but bullshit." She puffed her cigarette as he held the match for her, then lit his own. "Sherlock Holmes wouldn't lose intentionally unless it was part of his strategy for a game. And until you lost, you didn't even know there was a game."

"And now I do, but you've still left me in the dark as to the rules." He stood close to her, both tapping the ash off their cigarettes out the window.

"Rules? Let's set them up together, shall we? Rule 1: we are, at Mrs. Hudson's insistence, on a first name basis, Sherlock"

He almost smiled, it was so simple. "Rule 2: We play a game of chess every Sunday evening at 9pm. One has to keep one's wits sharp."

She smirked. "Rule 3: We must learn each other's territory. In other words, I've shown you mine; you have to show me yours."

"Forward of you. Rule 4: Each week at the chess game, we are allowed to ask one question of the other, which we are required to answer."

"Rule 5: We must answer it honestly. It will save the time on fact-checking, since we would find out anyway."

"Rule 6: We hire no one else and pry no information from our mutual acquaintances. Forthcoming information is permitted."

She nodded and breathed out a long stream of smoke. "No team play. Very well. Rule 7: You ask me to dinner."

He stopped mid-movement, his cigarette balanced awkwardly between his fingers as the ash clung to the tip. "Rule 8: The end of the game must be mutually decided upon."

"Rule 9: No more cigarettes. One nicotine patch a day for each of us, no matter how difficult the problem."

"Rule 10: We begin and end the game with a debriefing."

She smiled brightly and snuffed out her cigarette, then reached to fix his collar where it was turned up in the back. She was closer than Sherlock was comfortable with. Only The Woman had gotten that close. Of course, it had been the end of her game. Sherlock would play along with it. Let her get involved. She was a fan, but obviously not an ordinary one. Her hand pulled away and she walked back into the kitchen.

"I think ten is quite enough rules for a game such as ours. And shall we begin the debriefing now? I'll pour the scotch. Have a seat."

He was obedient, sitting in the armchair. It smelled like… "Dior's Midnight Poison, hm? Black rose, amber, patchouli - a woman who knows what she wants and is in control of the situation."

She laughed. "Not always, Sherlock. But I do enjoy it from time to time. And you were wearing Cartier Roadster – expensive tastes – mint accented with bergamot, vetiver, labdanum, patchouli, Cashmere wood and vanilla. Sophisticated, clean, and commanding. You like to leave a memory wherever you go, but don't want people to realize it too quickly."

"You read my website."

"Of course. You're the leading expert on the subject. Wouldn't make sense to turn elsewhere."

She brought the tray out and sat down in the middle of the couch, curling her legs up in a half lotus position. "So, this debriefing. Let's start with the camera you neglected to remove from my hallway. I appreciate the concern, but I have my own security measures, as you've begun to notice. Although I won't hesitate to call for help if I run into problems."

"As you mentioned, I did remove the rest."

"And I can't blame you for trying."

"I moved here from Brighton. I've been there several months. I lived with my husband before that. He had passed away."

"I noticed the cigarette case was _From James._"

"You don't miss a thing, do you?"

"Occasionally. Doesn't happen often." She poured him a glass of scotch, then filled her own. She looked at him silently. He took a drink. "Islay. Sweet, malty, a hint of saltwater peat that distinguishes the island, oaken casks."

"Port Ellen. Distilled just before they closed in 1983. Stands up well for its age, don't you agree?"

"A fine scotch indeed." He took another drink. "I hadn't removed it because we had once had a break-in down here. The entrant was…not someone I'd invite to tea."

"Do you invite anyone to tea?"

"Rarely."

"You still have to take me to dinner."

"Apparently."

She laughed. "A man of few words. I can accept that." She set down her glass and looked at him intently. "I am playing this only as a game. For your sake and mine. Boredom is the greatest enemy sometimes."

"There are greater enemies out there."

"And great allies. You have to make both, and I've been lax on that front. My life is practically ordinary."

"What do you do, then?"

"I told you upstairs, I tend bar."

"And I let people take pictures of me. A means to an end. What do you _do_?"

"And there you were right. I'm a researcher. It fits well with the way my mind works. I'm not quick enough to be a consulting detective, perhaps, but it keeps my mind occupied with other people's problems well enough. Besides, I don't think I could get the police to trust me. And I've never been dead." She picked her scotch back up and looked down at it, inhaling over it before taking another drink.

"You're in governmental intelligence, then?"

"Hardly. Although they've paid my wages several times."

"Freelancing, then."

"We're both consultants in our field, I suppose."

"It's the best place for minds that are not ordinary."

Her breath hitched. "Well then, was that a compliment from Sherlock Holmes?"

He stood, setting his empty scotch glass down. "Don't prove me wrong. I very much dislike being wrong. Good night, Rebekah."

As he mounted the stairs two at a time, he thought over each of their ten rules, pausing with curiosity at number seven. More curious yet, they'd talked about rules, but no goal. There was no case to solve. They had just been showing off tonight, impressing the other with their specificity of knowledge in certain realms.

He understood then. She was the case for him, just as he was the case for her. Both keeping to themselves, revealing little except for objective fact. What had the woman once said – smart is the new sexy?

Well, this could be intriguing. Perhaps even distracting.


	4. Tea and Contests

John flipped through the newspaper, looking for any puzzles to distract Sherlock. Although he had seemed rather more distracted the last few days. Kept muttering about a game of some sort. John didn't bother to ask. Sherlock certainly wouldn't be telling him until he needed his help or to show off. It sounded worse than it was. John didn't mind. Most of what was clicking rapidly through Sherlock's mind in this phase of a case was regrettably beyond John.

When Sherlock set a tea setting down in front of him though, John came out of his silent reading. "What on earth are you doing, Sherlock?"

"Making tea. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Well, precisely that. But you don't usually make tea. As a matter of fact, the last time you used this tea tray was…My god. Who's coming over Sherlock?"

"It's not Moriarty if that's what your mind has leapt upon. He is well and truly dead. Finally." Sherlock shifted one of the teacups on the tray so that it was precisely symmetrical with the other. "And Mrs. Scott is coming up for tea."

"Rebekah's coming?" John was slightly wounded. He had wanted to at least get the chance to ask her to dinner.

"Oh don't be upset. It's a business meeting of sorts."

"A business meeting?"

Sherlock shot him a warning look – repeating again. "Yes. I thought I'd get some of her vocational assistance."

"She said she's a bartender."

"No, actually she said she tends bar. Entirely different." He listened for the water to boil in the kitchen. "She is a researcher by trade, it seems. I'd like to test her mettle."

"You're going to quiz her, aren't you?"

"Perhaps. Well, yes."

"I'm not sure I want to be here for that…"

"If she doesn't take it well, perhaps you'd like to be there to console her? Like ordinary people with sentiment do."

"If you make her cry, God help me, Sherlock."

"I very strongly doubt she'll cry."

John set down the paper and turned to face Sherlock as he paced around the room, nervously picking up his gun. "Put that down. And how exactly do you know all about Rebekah Scott all of a sudden."

"We had a meeting after dinner the other night." He caught John's eye. "Again, purely business. If you want to be so damn wounded about her all the time, you might want to consider actually asking her to dinner rather than silently pining away for a woman you've met once."

"I'm not pining away for Rebekah!"

There was a knock on the open door. "The more's the pity," said Rebekah as she entered the room. Sherlock would have laughed if he had been so inclined. John sat dumbstruck. "Am I early, Sherlock?"

"Not at all, right on time." He gestured to the sofa next to John.

"Wonderful. And I hope you don't mind the look. I'm trying to take advantage of a casual Friday policy as I work from home." She grinned, and John grinned back. She leaned over to him conspiratorially. "And if you wanted to ask me to dinner, you might find I wouldn't say no."

"Oh, well, then… Do you have plans for tonight? Say, about 7:30?"

"Delightful. I promise to even dress respectably."

"Are you two quite finished?"

She gave John a considering look. "Actually, I would say we were just getting off to a good start. But I will delay it for you." She batted her eyelashes.

John finally stood up. "I'll leave you to it then. I'll see you tonight Rebekah."

"So this is your tit for tat then? It's a very nice flat."

"Hm. Thank you. Don't you think it might make things awkward when you eventually have a falling out with John?"

"Who says I'm going to have a falling out with John?"

Sherlock waited until he heard the front door close behind his flatmate. "Come now, we know that you're far more intelligent than he is. Eventually he will start to bore you."

"Does he bore you?"

Sherlock paused. "No, actually. He has moments of refreshing clarity, though they're soon clouded over."

"So generous, Sherlock."

"It's my good nature." He sat down, a smirk drawing up one corner of his mouth. "So, as you put it, I'm showing you mine. Care for some tea?"

"Can I just drink it or do I have to show off?"

"It's a blend from Tesco that John brought home. No guessing necessary."

"I don't guess. Usually." She took the teacup he offered her and blew gently on its surface. "Now, you had something you wanted me to find out?"

"I need information on a former antagonist of mine."

"Antagonist?"

"Archenemy might be the better term."

"Moriarty. The one they found dead on the rooftop just after…" she flinched.  
"Just after I jumped, yes." He sipped his tea calmly, all the while images of Sherlock's broken body echoed through her mind.

"Why do you want information on him? He's dead."

"So was I."

"You don't believe it?"

"It's hard to discount him. You don't know him as I do. He would be capable of deceiving even me. I was in a moment of…" He paused, and a flash of disgust across his face preceded the end of the sentence.

"Sentimental weakness."

"Which doesn't put you on your best game."

"No. I regret that. But time was of the essence."

"You found yourself more human than you'd anticipated."

"Something of the sort. I'm completely human. Just usually a high-functioning sociopath does not possess these emotions."

"Have you considered that you're not?"

"Human?"

"A high-functioning sociopath. You just have a different level of tolerance for emotional interference than most people."

"Meaning?"

"I believe you are perfectly capable of the same emotions ordinary people experience. It just takes a higher concentration of them to affect you in any way."

His eyes narrowed. "You've been researching me."

"You notice, I know. Why sacrifice my only strength?"

"I doubt very much that it's your only strength."

"That almost sounded like you were flirting with me."

"Not hardly."

She rolled her eyes. "Back to business then. Moriarty. What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Where he's from, his family, his previous associations, any jobs he's held, personal affects, where he was living."

"Your brother doesn't know all of this?"

"My brother is rather put out with me after the incident at St. Bart's."

"You must have put him through hell. How long did he believe you were dead?"

"About a month. And you don't know Mycroft very well if you believed he was perturbed by it."

"He went into functional shut down from what I understand. He was his own flight of the dead for at least a week. You're lucky he didn't put a fist to your face when you finally told him you'd come home."

"You have done your research if you even got into Mycroft's psychological evaluations. Interesting. You are the woman for the job, I'm sure."

"I can find out the information, given enough time. But you have other networks. Why me? You've only just met me."

"Because you are not ordinary. And whatever part of you is trying to be," he looked significantly down the stairs at where John had left the room, "there is a part of you that still needs to be recognized for what you are. And differentiated from what you are not."

She was silent. She stood and walked to the window, looking out at the sparse clouds that pointed toward rain tonight. She would have to wear a jacket when she went out with John. "Play me something on the violin, please?"

"Why?"

"Because as much as you believe that I am as immune to human sentiment as you are, my mind tells me that is quite untrue. And you have me rattled. And music soothes even the savage beast, does it not?" She was still looking out the window, and he approached his music stand beside her very cautiously. "And I don't know who bugged you, but unless you want this to be a recorded performance, you'll allow me…" She stood on tip toe and reached up behind his head. She grabbed a copy of Grey's Anatomy from the shelf – Sherlock had assumed it was John's addition to the apartment since he'd gotten this new job at yet another clinic. She peeled back the spine and for a moment Sherlock meant to protest, but a cool scientific interest overtook him. Sure enough, tucked into the binding was an audio recording device.

"I don't know if it's still actively recording or who placed it. Those are better left to a mind like yours."

He wanted to kiss her. Not necessarily because he was attracted to her – she wasn't unattractive, but her mind was a glowing beacon to him at that moment. He felt himself the moth to her flame. It disgusted him. The Woman had made him feel like that. He took up his bow. "Will Mozart do?"

"If it won't make me more anxious than you already have." She sat down and pulled the recording device from the book, examining it closely. "Then it will do just fine."

He put the bow to string as she turned the recording device over and over in her hand. She pulled out her phone and typed a few things, then snapped a few photos before returning the recorder to the book. She slid her phone away in her pocket, then curled her feet up beside her. He disliked that, but said nothing.  
Her eyes closed and she breathed in the music. It had an edge to it – Sherlock was perturbed by something, but she paid it no mind. Let him tell her. If he wanted a secret code with her simply because he thought she was extraordinary, he would have to tell her overtly.

He wanted information on Moriarty. She let the music slide around her. Moriarty, Jim. Criminal of the century for simultaneously breaking open the Bank of England, Tower of London, and - Prison. Nothing was taken from the first two, no one escaped from the third. An apparently moot crime. He was found not guilty by the jury, despite the judge's insistence he be found guilty. Sherlock was the expert witness. Called him a spider at the center of a criminal web that knows how to make them all dance. Criminal web contributed to by all the major customers and purveyors of the trade. Invited a handful of renowned assassins to London – all lived near Baker Street. Three dead by the bullets of the others. Rumors of a secret code that was valuable enough to draw all of them. Impossible code – but they were assassins, not computer experts.

Moriarty, Jim. Found Sherlock to be his equal, but was playing an endgame when Sherlock was playing to win. Found dead by his own bullet on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Sherlock Holmes jumped from the same rooftop, leaving his phone on the roof. It was placed with his personal affects, which disappeared from the morgue. Dr. Molly Hooper did the autopsy on both Holmes and Moriarty. Forged results in Holmes' case. He was meant to be cremated at Mycroft's request. Ashes delivered not-human, but organic, possibly animal. Moriarty was also cremated. Ashes never examined. Delivered – where? Last known residence – where? Next of kin – who? These were the questions she knew Sherlock wanted to answer. Death confirmation. But he would not stop there. He admired Moriarty, as much as he hated to admit it. He knew Moriarty was a genius. Mad, evil even, but a genius. She grimaced.

"I'll do it."

He stopped playing. "I'll pay you for your services, of course."

"No, I'm not doing this for money. This is the problem that will drive you mad if you don't know, so I'll help you." She stood again, taking a steadying breath. "But Sherlock, you have to promise that you won't let him come back."

"If you can confirm he's dead that won't be an issue."

She touched his arm gently. Her brow was furrowed. She was worried. "If I can confirm he's dead, it will be a much larger issue." She looked at him significantly, then walked quickly out the door. She practically flew down the steps.

Sherlock finished the last few bars of the piece. Slow, long and mournful. Women were impossible.


	5. Upstairs Downstairs

She looked gorgeous. Honestly, he had used an expletive in his thoughts when she had opened her door for him. It was stupid to gawk, since she wasn't in anything particularly fancy – a knee-length white skirt and a green top. Maybe it had just been too long since he'd had a date. Still Rebekah looked good, and John made sure that she knew he was aware of it. He touched her lower back as he ushered her out the door of 221C. She was slightly taller than him, but she'd worn flats to help compensate. She knew how men sometimes got when their dates were taller than them.

As they crossed the street, she glanced backward and rolled her eyes at Sherlock. He was like a dutiful mother hen, standing in the window watching them leave the building. She doubted his intentions were quite the same. Though perhaps it was John that he thought of as his little chick. Would that make her the wicked fox? She grinned at the thought and walked closer to John. She knew he would notice. That's what he got for trying to watch her every move. Two could play at that game.

"So where are we going?"

"Angelo's. It's a nice little café that Sherlock showed me." I know the owner, John continued in his head. "Taxi or tube?"

"Let's take the tube. Much more interesting people watching to be had."

"You like people watching?"

"People are infinitely interesting. I mean, look at you. Doctor, captain in the army, you've seen the terrible parts of war, but have eyes that are still so kind. You defend humanity to the very end. And you make even Sherlock Holmes cry when he has to say goodbye to you."

He looked at her, mildly shocked. "He told you that?"

She lifted her hand palm down and tilted it side to side. "Mostly. I'm sorry – I'm playing a bit of a game with him, and some of it involves you. You're the closest person he has; you were bound to come up."

"A bit of a game? I saw you decimate him in chess. What sort of game?"

"The kind to keep him occupied and out of trouble."

"I doubt that will work very long. He gets bored easily. He used to shoot smiley faces into the wall of the apartment."

"Smiley faces? Really? And I doubt it too. But at least it will keep me occupied and out of trouble." She grinned again.

"Are you the type to get in trouble? Wouldn't have pegged you for it."

She slid her ticket into the entry to the tube. "I get into my fair share. It comes with the territory."

"Bartending?"

"Some." She grabbed his hand and weaved through the crowd, jumping on the tram just as the door was closing. He held her tight against him in the crowded car. She looked back over her shoulder, putting their faces awfully close. He straightened his spine and made himself act the gentleman. "When I was younger, I learned to tend bar in Brussels and then Dublin. London isn't so bad. Except during and after football matches." She shrugged slightly. "What about you? Get into much trouble?"

"More than I ever have before in my life."

She laughed. "I can only imagine."

"This is our stop." He shuffled out after her, then she let him take the lead to Angelo's. As expected, Angelo greeted him warmly, this friend of the magnificent Sherlock Holmes who had saved him from jail (but not actually since he had gone to jail anyway). "He rather enjoys talking, I think," apologized John when they sat down in the front window seat.

"Almost a nice change from 221, hm?"

"Mrs. Hudson enjoys talking, too." He ordered wine for them. Sherlock had told him what bottle to get her. He wasn't volunteering that he had had to ask Sherlock for advice about a date. Last time he did that, Sarah had nearly gotten skewered. He was certain tonight would go better.

"That she does. She brags about you boys quite a bit."

"Really now? I hear her talk about Sherlock…"

She interrupted when she touched his hand. "John," she said softly. "Mrs. Hudson knows you can take care of yourself. Sherlock, despite all his high and lofty reputation for figuring things out, can't sometimes. And I'll be she thinks that Sherlock's ego needs stroked more than yours. She talks you up, just not in front of you."

"I don't mean to sound petty…"

"You don't." She squeezed his hand as the waiter brought them their bottle.

"Sir?"

John took the bottle and examined it. She gave him a small smile. He was trying to impress her. It was a 2004 Burgundy, oaken barrel, deep and rich, a lingering aroma of plums. It was one of her favorites. Sherlock had told him. She wondered if he'd volunteered the information or if John had asked him. It didn't really matter, and she was impressed. Perhaps he'd noticed the bottle on her wine rack near the scotch during their game of chess this week. If he'd simply guessed – deduced, he would say – she was even more impressed.

"Yes, very nice." She turned her attention back to John as he gave the waiter approval to pour the wine.

She tasted it, pretending ignorance. "It's wonderful John! What is it?" He handed her the bottle for her to peruse. "You really know how to treat a girl."

It was a pleasant dinner, talking about things normal people talk about. Sherlock only came up a few times, and each time it was John who brought him up. He cared deeply for the other man, it was obvious. But it was platonic. Almost like a little brother who wants to grow up to be just like his older sibling. But John was already grown up.

She'd ordered a glass of champagne with dessert, and he'd done the same. With two glasses of wine already in his system, he ordered them a taxi back. He was less-inhibited than he had been on the trip there, and when he asked Rebekah if she wanted to do anything else that night, she knew he didn't mean go to the cinema. She paused, then felt her phone go off.

_Enjoying dinner? – SH_

"Important?" he asked, still dangerously close.

"Sherlock," she responded, texting him back.

"So that's how that feels." He leaned back away from her. "Well at least you can't blame me for answering Sherlock's texts during a date."

"I wouldn't fault you for it to begin with. He's your best friend."

_Done with dinner. Dessert was…delicious. –RS_

She'd barely sent it when his reply came back. _Come upstairs with John when he invites you. –SH_

Well that was interesting. _Might have been planning on it anyway. –RS_

A longer pause this time. _Don't. –SH_

She let out a long exhale. He didn't mean don't come up. Point for Sherlock Holmes. None for Rebekah Scott. Although… She smiled. Yes, the game was up, but she'd gained a strategy for the next part.

"What's he want now?"

"I'm supposed to come upstairs when you invite me. And I probably was not supposed to tell you that."

John sat back even farther. "What's his interest in you, then?"

"I don't really know."

"He finds everything boring these days, so perhaps your just that goddamn interesting, is that it? Did you just let me ask you out so you could see if he's jealous? It would go like that. The first time in ages that he hasn't called me away from a date, and he calls you away instead."

She kept her voice steady, but was struck painfully by what he'd said. "John."

"Or maybe all these meetings you have aren't business. Didn't you say you're just distracting him? For all I know, Mycroft is concerned over little brother's mental health and has sent him a…"

She slapped him. It wasn't hard, but he stopped. "Oh my god. Rebekah, I'm sorry. I didn't… I shouldn't have had the wine...And when Sherlock…" He groaned and leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed.

She sighed. "John…"

"No it's all right. I've been abominable."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek where she'd slapped him. "I've never met Mycroft."

"I should never have implied…"

She laid a finger on his lips. "I'm distracting him because he's nearby. I moved in innocently, I promise you that. He tells me I'm not ordinary. I see things like he does. That's all. I warned you that we were playing a game, Sherlock and I. I just wasn't paying close enough attention to realize that two people like us need to be careful. You shouldn't get caught in the crosshairs." The taxi pulled up and she paid the cabby. "Come on John. To bed with the both of us."

"I thought Sherlock had called you upstairs?"

"He said come when you ask me. If you don't ask me, then I can't agree, can I?" She smiled at him as they stood on the curb.

"No, I suppose not." He walked her to the door. "Still, I was awful."

"You were human. So was I. But maybe we should let this be the last date for awhile, hm?"

"That might be a good plan."

She kissed his cheek again. "Good night, John. Drink some water before bed, all right? Doctor's orders." She smiled at him.

"Goodnight Rebekah."

Rebekah didn't wait for any more interaction. Downstairs, she wished she hadn't promised herself that she would quit smoking. And that nicotine patches weren't part of the game. She poured a glass of scotch. So Sherlock was right. She wasn't ordinary. She wasn't particularly normal either. But she wanted to be. At least she was fairly certain she did. She sat on the floor, facing the door, back against the wall. She curled her legs into half lotus and closed her eyes, occasionally sipping her scotch.

Holmes, Sherlock. 35-years of age. Born in London, England. Parents deceased. Elder brother Mycroft. Sherlock likes to say Mycroft "is the British government." Self-described sociopath. Consulting detective. Studied chemistry at Oxford. Graduated with honors. Original employment as a forensic chemist for St. Bartholomew's Hospital, a job he retains despite almost never being there. Consulted with Scotland Yard, London police, and others. Main contact in the force DI Gregory Lastrade. Hailed as Reichenbach hero, with a slew of victories following. Giant reputation, giant fall when the Richard Brook story was propagated by the papers and a stupid reporter looking to make her own name. Moriarty swore to "burn the heart out" of him. He survived the encounter. Moriarty did not.

Holmes, Sherlock… She took another long drink of scotch. Holmes, Sherlock. Was bugged by Moriarty before Moriarty was in the apartment. Never detected. Plays the violin when he needs to think. And at my request. Shoots smiley faces into the wall when bored. Often overlooks important clues because he finds them boring. Devoted to John Watson as his only friend. Incredibly attractive.

She took another long drink of her scotch, seeing through the clear bottom of the glass. "Damn it." Then came the knock on the door.


	6. To Trouble

"You're drunk."

"Probably."

"If you had as much as John did, I'm sure you are. And you've only had about 15 minutes to finish the scotch."

"What that means, Sherlock, is that the two other people in this building that are not in their mid-60s are both intoxicated. And you are far too sober."

"I don't find that alcohol enables the mind."

"It doesn't. In fact, it dulls it. Makes you stop thinking certain things. It works delightfully on the rare occasion."

"My mind is an instrument that should never be dulled." He sat in her armchair, observing her.

"Your mind could be a Strativarius, but no one can listen to the same sound forever. The occasional moment of silence is… peaceful. Makes you appreciate the tune again."

"Your mind isn't peaceful. You cursed just before I knocked."

"You were about to knock. I wasn't exactly expecting company."

"You should have been. You didn't come up when I told you to. You would have known if you weren't drunk."

She snapped out of it, becoming painfully sober in her actions. Her words were crisp, her thoughts collected, and her body moved with grace and coordination. "Is this better, Sherlock? You would prefer me at your beck and call?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"Moriarty planted the recorder."

"I know. It's been there at least 4 months, probably longer. It hasn't been transmitting in at least 2 – battery died." She sighed and laid back on the couch, her knees bent and her skirt tucked tight around them. "Did you have something to tell me?"

He looked at her, examining carefully. "I'll have another glass of scotch if you have one."

She picked up her head, looking at him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Because I would like to stop my thoughts for a bit. As an experiment."

"Hmph." She laid back down. "It's in the kitchen. Help yourself."

He walked into the kitchen. She had pretty well moved in, it appeared. The kitchen was stocked with the normal pantry items. He glanced through her open bedroom door. Most of the boxes were gone. She'd made fast work of it. Her desk was strewn with papers, and he resisted the urge to walk in and examine them. He poured himself a double scotch. He looked back at her on the couch. Shut up his thoughts indeed.

He tilted it back before quickly pouring himself another double and brought the bottle out to her.

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Sherlock?"

"I don't have to. You're already there."

She sat up on one knee, holding her glass out for him to fill. "Then are you trying to keep me drunk?"

"Just ever so politely asking you to wait there until I arrive." He held up his glass. "What shall we toast to? Not thinking?"

She pursed her lips. "Oh no." She raised her glass to meet his. "To trouble."

He smiled. It was a cold smile, and it made her shiver. "To trouble."

Rebekah looked at Sherlock, sprawled out at one end of her couch, his suit jacket discarded on the armchair. Sometime after they'd both fallen asleep on the couch – they'd been trying to find a fact the other person couldn't finish, and they'd both failed – his arm had fallen down around her. Her body still remembered such familiar touch as commonplace, and she had let him. Now that she was awake, she was trying to calculate what his body was thinking.

She was mildly hungover, and it made her irritable and distant. She tucked his arm back against himself and moved to the far end of the couch. Holmes, Sherlock. Six foot, three inches. 13 stone, maybe. Muscled, but with no apparent source of training. She'd have to watch more closely. Couldn't hold his liquor. He'd only had two doubles. Well, and the one he thought he was sneaking in the kitchen. She wondered if he would remember the encounter. It was 5:19, and the sun was just starting to think about rising.

Holmes, Sherlock. Had told her she was beautiful, in a scrubby sort of way. Had stared at his fingertips and pressed his lips together until they were chapped trying to decide how best to describe the feeling or lack thereof that alcohol was inducing. She licked her own lips and stopped cold. "Damn it."

Her own unchapped lips tasted of menthol, like the lip balm she'd offered him the night before. The hazy memory was hard to pin down, but somehow the lip balm had gotten on her lips, and she knew the tube had not touched her mouth. "Damn it," she repeated, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She hoped he didn't remember. She stood, returning to her bedroom to change for the day. She'd only had 3 hours of sleep at best, but it didn't matter. She was angry, and needed to get out of there.

She put on her trainers and looked at Sherlock's sleeping form. "Fine," she muttered. "Just fine." She left him be and headed out the door for a quick run. Her hangover pounded at her head like a sore loser. She focused her mind through the painful haze.

_"__What native African animal sound is louder than a Boeing 747 at takeoff?" He'd discarded his jacket and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt in the humid evening weather. She'd slipped off her shoes and had her feet tucked under his leg for warmth._

_"__What sort of question is that?" She laughed brightly, and he smiled –_ her memory thought it was genuine_ – "A hippopotamus having sex, obviously."_

_"__What eye trick did Rensaissance Italian women use to make men think they were really in love?"_

_"__Dilution of belladonna under the eyes. Atropine. Very dangerous, but made the eyes dilate, an almost certain sign of attraction."_

_"__Didn't know you kept belladonna on you," she joked._

_"__I don't." His look had changed rapidly, from amusement to attraction. She hadn't been prepared for it when he had leaned toward her. She should have been. If she had been thinking clearly…._

She looked around. She had run about a mile. She could run back now, take a shower and start the day. And pray that Sherlock woke up remembering next to nothing. Let that be his little puzzle to solve. "I will not be played like his violin. Stradivarius or no."

She ran quicker on the way home, planning new diversions for the game. Ways to get into his head. Clearly that's what this had been – a ploy of his to get under her skin. She wouldn't let him. She would divulge nothing and learn everything. She could handle her liquor, and she could handle Sherlock Holmes too.


	7. Less Molasses

Mrs. Hudson called down the stairs as Rebekah descended. "And get the light brown sugar. Less molasses."

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be a couple hours – I've got another errand or two to run as well."

"All right dear. But hurry back. You wouldn't want to miss your Sunday game with Sherlock."

Rebekah had the sudden urge to punch the woman. She blamed Sherlock for bringing out her surliness. He had kissed her, whether he remembered it or not, and woken up in her apartment. An ordinary man would draw certain conclusions that Rebekah could play to her advantage. But no, Sherlock was a logical man, and she had destroyed the evidence. No impossibilities to eliminate, Sherlock's mind could wander into whatever hole it felt safest in. That was icy cold silence, apparently.

He hadn't spoken to her since. Not one text. Not one sudden drop by. Not one additional request for information on Moriarty. It was exactly what she had hoped he would do, and she loathed him for it.

Somehow, though, it still wasn't a surprise to her when the black car appeared next to her just before she descended into the tube. "Get in said the lanky man with a cane."

"Ah, Mycroft Holmes, I do believe. Pleased to make your acquaintance at last." She slid in next to him, knowing it could well be the most dangerous thing she could do.

"Mrs. Scott, you are playing a dangerous game." The car was rolling through the streets quickly, toward the wharf if she wasn't mistaken.

"As I've become painfully aware, Mr. Holmes. No need to remind me."

"He may not know, but I do."

She looked lazily at him. "Yes, I'm sure you do. You would be a poor excuse for the British government if you didn't. You made that mistake once, well twice if you count her, and are highly unlikely to do it again. So now you've whisked me away to decide my fate. Do you continue to let me be? Perhaps make the same offer you made Dr. Watson? Do you make me disappear into thin air, where not even Sherlock could follow the trace if he were so inclined? Or do you send me back like a dog on a leash, letting me live, letting me stay on at Baker Street, but monitored and coached for every move, reporting on your little brother in exchange for my pseudo-liberty? Choices, Mr. Holmes, choices."

"You're too much like him."

"Once again, painfully aware."

"You don't make this easy Mrs. Scott."

"What do you want from me, Mr. Holmes? To plead for my life? To promise to be good? Better than I'm expected to be? I'm not him, you know. And you would know."

She stared straight ahead, gathering what she could from the front of the car. Two up front, the driver and a body guard. She was rather surprised that Mycroft had come himself, that wasn't like him. She wondered what he knew. Nothing that Sherlock had told him, he was sure. She almost laughed. If he did know, would that make his choice easier or harder? She knew what he wanted to do – that part of him still tied to sentiment as much as the Holmes brothers disavowed it. She knew what the most strategic route would be.

Finally, she sighed. "Mr. Holmes, you can honestly do what you please. I got into the car knowing. I didn't run, I have no intention of doing so. I'm not an innocent, but I'm not selling secrets out of the country, or running a criminal network of immense proportions."

The car stopped suddenly, and Rebekah knew that Mycroft must have hit the switch hidden under the seat with his cane. "This is your stop, I believe, Mrs. Scott." The door unlocked in front of Tesco. "But before you go," he handed her an envelope, "take this. It may be the coup de grace in the little game you're playing. But play with prudence. It could still destroy both of you. And I would not stand for that."

"I made him promise."

"I know." Mycroft nodded toward the store. "Good day, Mrs. Scott."


	8. Sugar and Spice

A/N: Thanks for those who have read this little plot bunny of mine. I could use some feedback - what do you like/not like? Are the chapter lengths ok? Anything incongruous in character development? Praise is welcome, of course, but so are those little nagging problems that I miss. Let me know!

John opened the door when Rebekah knocked. They had spoken to each other very little since the meltdown of a date, although they were still a presence in each other's lives. Sherlock saw to that. They were both pawns to his king. "Sherlock's not home just yet."

"I heard he went to St. Bart's to pester Molly about something. That woman must have the patience of a saint."

"Anyone that sticks around Sherlock more than a week must." He sat back down at his computer. "Including you."

She thought about the midnight intrusions, the constant texts, the insistence that she do as he willed. And of course the car she'd just been ousted from in front of Tesco. All in a day's work to know Sherlock Holmes. "So, John, is Mycroft always such a stuck up pain in the ass? Practical kidnappings abound in his dark little world, don't they?"

John chuckled and typed a few more lines on his blog. "So Mycroft's gotten to you? I thought he was still livid with Sherlock."

"I think he's always been livid with Sherlock – family history or whatever they call it. Now he just stays a step farther back as he orbits around." She paused, taking a now familiar seat on the couch. "Strange, isn't it? The man who essentially runs one of the most powerful countries in the Western world, orbiting like a moon around Sherlock's sun."

"It sounds a bit obsessive when you put it that way."

"It does, doesn't it?" She frowned, thinking. "Anyway, I could use a nice cup of coffee. Would you like a cup?"

John yawned. "Took the thought right from my mind."

She smiled amicably at him as she started pulling from the cupboard. "Not quite."

On top of the refrigerator was a little tin of coffee she'd purchased to keep up here. The stuff John normally drank was decent, but not really good. She was a drink snob, as Sherlock had called her – fine scotch, fine wine, fine coffee. She put the water on to heat up, then the French press. She had been surprised that Sherlock owned one. He had sworn it was his. It may well have been John's.

"What are you writing about? Sherlock have a new case?"

"Businessman found in his office from an apparent heart attack. Nothing seems to be missing. Sherlock made them test for digitalis. His system was full of it. Bit of a caffeine addict, and his coffee mug had been dosed with it. You know those things never get really washed."

"So whodunit?" She brought him his cup of coffee and leaned her chin down on his shoulder to read the screen.

"His wife. It was an accident. He wouldn't take his medications, and she was terrified of him dying, so she cracked open his pills and spread the medication on the inside of his mug that she sent with him every day. When he brought it home, it looked clean – it had been rinsed – but the traces were still there. Every day she dosed it again. Eventually got to be too much for him."

"Poor woman. Like the little bird chick you hold too hard as a child."

"Hm, indeed." He sipped his coffee, noticing her chin was still resting comfortably on his shoulder.

"You have quite a way with words, you know. Maybe you should publish a book. People would buy it."

"Sherlock wouldn't."

"He might. He's been a bit caged up lately." She guffawed, pulling back to her seat on the couch. "Can you imagine Sherlock doing a book tour with you? Reading and insulting everyone who came up for his autograph?"

"He would be a bit of a tough sell, marketing-wise, wouldn't he?"

"Oh, a regular PR nightmare." She was in a laughing fit now, her coffee having been left on the table since she didn't trust herself not to spill it. Sherlock would never let her live that down. "Thanks for that. I needed a laugh."

"No problem. We're still… I mean, not dating, but…"

"Friends. I think we can both manage that."

"If it's plural, you're one up on Sherlock."

"He only has one?"

"That's what he tells me." John sipped his coffee, then typed a bit more.

"Oh."

He turned, realizing his mistake. "I'm starting to be too much like him, I think. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I'm sure you're his friend too." He thought that sounded trite, but nothing to be done about it now.

"No, I don't know that we are. Business associates, perhaps."

"Sounds distant for someone who plays a weekly game of chess with him, finds him asleep on her couch, and keeps her own coffee in his apartment."

"We're distant people, John." She settled back into the couch. Sherlock was here, not at St. Bart's, she knew it, could practically feel her hairs stand on end with his observation. "If Mycroft is a moon, I sometimes worry I'm just becoming a television satellite of something like that."

"Pshaw." They both settled into silence. John had stopped his typing, and appeared to be reading his notes.

Rebekah watched her hands knit around the cup of black coffee. She didn't look up toward Sherlock's room on the other side of the kitchen. She wasn't sure if he was standing there or just listening. She'd never seen Sherlock's room except a few occasional glimpses, since he always kept the door closed. She could only imagine what he had in there. If his refrigerator was full of fingers, eyeballs, and severed heads, what in God's name would he keep where it was truly hidden from the rest of the world?

After a long moment, Sherlock emerged. He was still in his pajamas and nightgown, completely unabashed. No real reason to be abashed. Just two of his satellites in the room, and John was his straight flatmate. And she was… something not in her realm of extensive vocabulary. Except, possibly, screwed. She thought the expression that her American colleagues overused would be perfectly applicable in this situation.

"Morning, John, Rebekah. He sprawled on the other end of the couch, making Rebekah curl up further into a ball.

"Morning," they both muttered, suddenly very interested in their coffees.

"John, I need you today. We're going to Piccadilly."

"We are? I thought you were at St. Bart's."

"I just told you so. And obviously I am not. You made coffee?"

"Rebekah did."

"I can tell. It smells better. Can I have some?"

She hesitated, uncurling from her ball. "Yes. I'll make you a cup. And then I should probably go back to Mrs. Hudson's. She's supposed to be teaching me how to make spice cookies. Since you're going out, I'll ask if she has time this afternoon."

"Will we be reaping the benefits of that?" John was shutting down his computer.

"John adores spice cookies." Sherlock said drily.

Rebekah scooped the last of her coffee into the French press for Sherlock. "I'll bring you down some. If you have time, can you stop by here and pick up a package for me? I ordered it a week ago, and just haven't made it down to pick up." She scribbled the name of a store on a scrap of paper on the table, handing it to Sherlock. "If you don't have time, just let me know." She took her lip balm out of her pocket and put it on. She almost flinched. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her.

"We won't have time."

"We'll make time." Sherlock and John spoke at the same time.

Rebekah rolled her eyes. "Sherlock, your coffee will be done in a minute. Sugar's next to it. I'm off for now. I'll see you boys later." She grabbed her Tesco bag from next to the door and took the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's apartment. She bit her lip – it tasted like lip balm. Like the kiss she now half remembered. She was screwed.


	9. One Whit

A/N: I'm about 2 chapters up in writing, and I'm actually kind of excited about what's happening. Keep the suggestions/comments/critiques coming! Thanks to those who have written. It's much appreciated.

John looked across the taxi seat at Sherlock. "So how much did you hear this morning?"

"Not much." Sherlock was typing into his phone.

"Don't lie. It doesn't suit you. Does it make you happy that she doesn't think you give one whit about her?"

Sherlock thought about it, and could tell by the look on John's face that it was a moment longer than he should have. "No. I give at least one whit."

"You're at her flat all the time, and when you're not, she's up at ours. You have a regular date to play chess. She makes you coffee and helps you with your cases. If you were even a little attracted to her, and god knows any normal man would be, you were be one dinner date away from dating."

"One dinner date?" His brain whirred. "Is that how that works? I didn't know that was a criterion."

"It's not. It's not a criterion – it doesn't work that way. It's just… who have you thought about most in the past week."

"Moriarty."

"Aside from him – that's an unhealthy obsession with the dead, you know. Unhealthier than normal."

"We can't really prove he's dead."

"And we don't have any evidence to the contrary. Nothing to tell us that him being dead is an impossibility. So is it so damned improbable that you might be attracted to another human being?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Yes. It is that improbable that I would be drawn into such a trivial relationship as dating an ordinary person."

"You are such a stuck up prig. You might run a chance at being happy if you didn't have your head so far up your behind." John pouted out the window.

"Your date a few weeks ago didn't go well with her."

"No, it didn't."

"Why not?"

"Just didn't seem like the kind of thing we each wanted."

"Why? How did you know?"

John spun around in his seat. "Because you texted her, practically summoning her, and then a lot of things were said, and we decided it was better to not pursue anything." He huffed back into silence.

"But you're friends."

"Yes."

"How do you know the difference between just being friends and when you were attracted to her?"

"I'm still attracted to her – she's an attractive woman. I'm just interested in dating her."

"Why not?"

"Don't make me tell you this. The brilliant Sherlock Holmes should be able to deduce his way through this. Except, of course, that it's sentiment."

"John, I so rarely have to tell you this, but I need your help."

John stepped out of the taxi. "Because she's only got eyes for you, you dolt." John kept muttering to himself, walking down the street and waiting for Sherlock to pay and get out.

"Really? That seems insensible."

John rolled his eyes. "It is. Especially with you. For all the things you use notice and deduce, you couldn't notice a girl if she showed up naked in front of you. Case in point, Irene Adler." He may have gone too far with that last one, but John wasn't particularly interested in being tactful with Sherlock at the moment.

"I noticed."

"Yes, her measurements. And that her eyes dilated and her pulse raised. Congratulations."

"And that she was brilliant. But What else is there? Those are biological signs of attraction. Of sentiment."

"That's not sentiment. That's not her caring about you. She sold you out to the highest bidder. Rebekah seems to be willing to do whatever it is you want."

"She doesn't always come when I text," Sherlock countered.

"She's not a dog." He sighed and followed Sherlock across the square. "This is not something I should have to explain to you."

Sherlock heard his tone and stopped. "John, I need you to talk to that woman over there. The one with the green purse. You see her? I need you to keep her occupied for 30 minutes if at all possible. Be your charming self."

"That's why you brought me?"

"Probably. We'll see if there's more for you to do." Sherlock walked away briskly. "Thirty minutes!" he called back over his shoulder.

John shook his head, but dutifully walked to the table where the woman sat. "Hello, is this seat taken?"

The woman looked up and smiled. "No, let me clear off my things." She moved the green purse off the chair.

"I'm John," he said, taking a seat.

"Mary," she replied. "What can I do for you, John?"

Sherlock finished picking out the gravel from between the treads of tire. The car belonged to Mary Russell. She wasn't a suspect, per se, but he had a suspicion she might be a witness. If she had been at the crime scene, her tires would have picked up the gravel, a peculiar mix of non-native stones that had been shipped in specifically for the victim's drive. He'd look at them at the lab. He looked at his phone. He had 5 minutes left. John had looked to be enjoying his conversation with Ms. Russell.

His phone beeped. "Got a fancy new passport. Dinner in Paris?"

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and felt the crumple of paper. He looked at the name of the store, then pulled his phone back out. _Take your time. Meet you at the flat. – SH_

John felt his phone buzz and chuckled at the text. "Do you have to go, then?" Mary sounded mildly disappointed.

"No, actually. My plans just got cancelled. You were saying something about getting tea?"

The shopkeeper was practically giddy when she handed Sherlock the box. "She's a lucky one. It's a real one of a kind. The designer is in school, but we just loved it when we saw it on the runway. When your lady called us up to order it, well, I'll say I was almost disappointed. Wanted it for myself. But all the same, she'll look quite lovely, I'm sure. It would be hard not to in this. You'll need to take her somewhere special to show it off, though."

He just wanted the woman to shut up. "Yes, I'll see to it. I'm afraid I must be off now. Thank you." He left the woman still talking as he carried the bag she'd given him out to hail a taxi. Once inside, her wriggled the string off one corner of the box and lifted it. A dress. It was the same shade of blue as her eyes. He closed the box quickly.

Sherlock could hear the women's laughter as he mounted the stairs of 221B. It seemed that they were having a good time. John was having a good time at Piccadilly with Mary Russell. Sherlock was sitting alone in his flat with a woman's dress box on his lap, pondering the puzzle at hand.


	10. Fifth Movement

Several hours had passed and John still wasn't home. The laughter upstairs, along with the smell of spice cookies, had faded. Sherlock had solved the case without the gravel samples – the long hours of thinking made it clear to him. He sent a text to John to tell him Mary Russell was no longer a suspect, if she ever had been.

He looked at the box on the table. He could take it down to Rebekah.

He picked up his violin instead. He had a half-written composition, and as he lay his bow to the string, he closed his eyes. He didn't need to read it – he knew it. It was a vague memory of the Moriarty incident. The triumphant march of the Reichenbach case, the slow uncertainty of the court trial, the rush in minor of the end game. And then the jump…

His eyes opened when he heard her swallow the lump in her throat. She was watching him play, and when his eyes met hers, she looked away, brushing tears from her eyes. He didn't understand why she was upset. She hadn't been there. She couldn't understand how personal that piece was.

She cleared her throat. "What's the fifth movement?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The fifth movement. The next part of the story. Does it end happily?"

He noted the blotching around her nose and eyes and the almost imperceptible trembling of her lip. "I'm not yet sure." He put the violin on its stand and walked slowly around the couch. "I had a moment while John was dallying, so I managed to pick up your package. The shopkeeper was jealous you bought it."

"Was she?" She looked at the white box tied with silk ribbon. "She should be."

"Is it really something to be that admired?"

"I'll let you judge. Can I use your bathroom to try it on?" She went in without a response from him, and his eyes followed her to the door. She certainly felt free to come and go in their flat. He had left the door open, but still. Wasn't it common courtesy to knock?

It was likely also common courtesy not to look into other people's packages, even if he had picked it up. Social decorum was not high on either his or Rebekah's priority lists. He closed his eyes to listen. She was pulling off her jeans, then opening the box. His mind's eye could picture it. Her clothes were folded on the edge of the sink, and she was looking excitedly at her purchase, looking over each seam before she unzipped it.

The door opened. "Sherlock, can you give me a hand? I can't get the zipper up any higher." Her elbows were stuck out at odd angles while she demonstrated her inability to budge the fastener.

He walked over and batted her hands away. He held the fabric above the problem point steady, then pulled the zipper up her side. "There, all done. I don't understand why designers would make clothes that take more than one person to put on. Seems impractical."

"This dress isn't exactly made to be practical. Although…" she broke off in laughter.

"What is it?"

"I was going to the shooting range this week. Can you imagine it in this?"

Sherlock let his eyes roam over Rebekah in this new dress – pale blue and hugging her form from several inches above her knee, an asymmetrical shoulder line – long sleeve lace on one side – at the top. He thought of her holding a pistol, the men at the range would line up to stare at her. He had the urge to hide her from their lechery.

"I can't say that it would be an advisable action."

Her laugh calmed into a smile. "I would never do it, of course. Just a funny thought." She spun slowly, her bare feet on tip toes and one arm out while the bare arm gathered her hair so he could see the back. "What do you think?"

He should have said, "You look better than anything I've ever seen," but The Woman had been very attractive too. He should have put his hand back on the zipper and pulled it down, but that would have been too forward. Instead, he said, "Where on earth are you going to wear it to?"

She gave him a Cheshire cat grin, and he found himself in a rare uncomfortable moment. "I have a lead on Moriarty's last hideout."

"What is it?" He followed with a silent, And why on earth does it require you to wear that nearly sinful dress in order to talk about it?

"I'll tell you on the way there this weekend."

"This weekend? Why don't we go now?"

"Patience, Sherlock," she laid her hand on his arm. It was as if something about that dress was making every ounce of mischief she possessed come out of her. He couldn't say he disliked it. "You can't rush a wedding." She picked up her pile of clothes and put them in the box. She tossed an envelope at him. "Here's the invitation. Pick me up at 8pm sharp. Look debonair. We'll be going high class."

She paused at the door and gave him an indecipherable smile. "I'm looking forward to it."

She knew that Sherlock was standing on the other side of the door, processing. She knew that he wouldn't open the envelope for at least another 10 seconds. She knew that for all the times he was inhuman, mechanical, and impervious, he was not oblivious.

He was not oblivious when he had stopped to pick up her dress, or when he'd taken the peek he thought he had concealed. He was not oblivious when his hand met skin while he was fastening her dress. And he was not oblivious to the idea that he would have to pretend to be her date to this wedding, with her dressed to kill.

It was important that he noticed these things. It was important because noticing them could keep him oblivious to the rest.


	11. And we are all but players in it

"You're going to a what?"

"A wedding."

"At this hour?"

"It's only seven in the evening, John." Sherlock adjusted his jacket. John had tried to get him to wear a tie that matched Rebekah's dress, but he had batted him away. "I don't do ties."

"Seven in the evening or not," John said carefully, "You're still going to a wedding with Rebekah. That's almost… like a date."

"It's for the case John. She has a lead and wants me there if things go sour."

"The way you described that dress, Sherlock, she's either planning on seducing the man with the information…"

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to look at John. "Or what?"

"Well, she's not wearing that dress to please her grandma." John pressed his lips together. He was ok with this. Sherlock couldn't pay her the kind of attention she was after if he tried. He was ok with this. He stood up suddenly.

"Where are you going?"

"Out." John grabbed his wallet and mobile and ran down the stairs. _Fancy a trip to the cinema?_ – _John._

It only took a few moments. _When? – Mary_

Sherlock watched him go with no small amount of surprise. He checked his watch, then moved to the chessboard. He had a game with himself going – practice for the weekly game with Rebekah. He wondered what sort of information she had found, and why they had to go to the wedding to retrieve it. If they could get it any time, why the public venue? It came to him suddenly. It was meant to be a wedding gift. He was suddenly very curious about whose wedding they were attending.

And so he was early when he descended to 221C. She called to him from inside when he knocked, bidding him to come in and make himself at home. She was still in her bedroom getting ready. He rifled absently through the mail on her table, but found nothing of interest. He heard the door but didn't move. She stepped up behind him. "Anything good?"

She was close enough he could practically feel the air vibrate with her words, but she wasn't touching him. He turned slowly, and she matched the distance, looking over his shoulder at the mail while she fastened in a long drop earring. Diamonds. Her makeup was done perfectly, her hair pulled into a tight chignon except for one perfectly placed curl down the left side of her face. She wore a matching diamond bracelet and white shoes that made her just as tall as he was. She finally met his eye, smiling softly, then let her gaze drift downward.

"Well you clean up well."

"It's what I always wear."

"It's an expression, Sherlock. But you do. You look nice. I won't be ashamed to have you as my arm candy tonight."

"Arm candy?" Sherlock had been called many things in his life, but arm candy was not one of them. He had seen that term used in association with the flighty blondes film stars kept around, or the glassy-eyed boy toys of the rich. He frowned at its association with him.

She adjusted his collar. "If I just wanted something pretty, I already have the diamonds. You're much…sweeter." She turned away from him and picked up her handbag from the table. "Ready when you are." She took his arm, and he looked at her strangely.

"If you're going to be my wedding date, and have any hope of this working, you have to pretend that you're not allergic to me."

"I'm not allergic to you."

"Then don't flinch like I'm going to give you a rash when I touch you." He focused his mental energy on letting her lean into him. "Much better. We'll make an actor of you yet, Mr. Holmes."

They stepped outside and a black car pulled up. Sherlock thought it was an awfully inconvenient time for Mycroft to pull one of his tricks. The back of his mind considered the possibility that it was once again The Woman. To his surprise, a driver in full regalia stepped out of the car and came around to open the door. He nodded at Rebekah. "Mrs. Scott," he nodded respectfully.

"Ian, always a pleasure to see you again," she smiled slowly, the red of her lipstick turning an otherwise innocent smile into something almost painfully seductive. Ian, apparently, was used to it from his clients and didn't respond in any visible way.

"To the reception then?"

"Like everyone else." She sat down slowly, pulling her long legs into the car, then beckoning Sherlock to get in too. He followed, hesitant. When the door was closed and the divider was up, she relaxed a bit. "I suppose you're wondering…"

"How could I not?" He interrupted. He was irked. He was not used to being in a situation where he was not the most knowledgeable. Whatever this was, it was clearly her realm.

She ignored his outburst. "Ian drove for me often when my husband and I attended such galas."

"It sounded like this wedding was well-known."

She was checking her makeup in a small mirror. "To a certain group, it is." She snapped the compact shut and tucked it back in her purse. "Sherlock, someday you'll find that everyone knows me. Or rather, thinks they do. Most of them are fools and very wrong." She sighed. "But that doesn't mean that all of them like me. Be careful tonight. There will be some at the reception who would consider it a successful night if they stabbed me in the back. Figuratively or literally."

"Why are we going? What is there?"

"A gift."

So he'd been right. They would have to get it from the table, if it was that sort of arrangement. He wondered how they would know which it was. He wondered how she had found out. He would ask her later.

"Tonight, Sherlock, I need you to act. I will have to fall into an old family role, and I'll need you to back me. Do you think you can handle pretending to be attracted to me? I plan on dazzling all of the ordinary men, but the women would notice if you were standoffish." She was looking out her window, not at him at all.

Acting he could do. "I suppose I could manage it." If he convinced her that it wasn't an act, she would open up to him, perhaps let him know what she planned to do and who these people were. He ran the back of his fingers down her bare arm. She shivered.

"He has the air on too high, don't you think?"

Sherlock watched his hand as it moved with carefully-regulated slowness over her skin. "Actually I was thinking it was rather warm."

She chuckled. "A method actor. I should have known." She knew two could play at this game, and he was a fast learner. But she was the master. She put her hand on his knee, making slow circles on his thigh with her thumb. "So is this dress rehearsal."

"Almost a shame there's so much dress."

"Listen to you, Mr. Holmes. A regular Don Juan." She leaned closer. Her mind played a cadence, slightly faster than her normal heart rate. She sped up her breathing. Her heart followed the beat. She had to keep him from noticing her eyes. She leaned in quickly, touching her lips to his and closing her eyes.

It was wet, he thought. Pleasant, very much so, but wet. Her breath was warm and her lips moved with practiced grace with his. His hand moved to her neck to hold her there. She was buying it.

She felt his hand on hers and made a small sound in the back of her throat. His fingers tensed, holding her against him for a long moment. He was reacting just like she wanted him to.

They both pulled back when the driver turned off the main road. Rebekah rifled through her purse. Sherlock noticed her movements were quick and spastic. She was nervous. She handed him a handkerchief and motioned for him to wipe his mouth. "Lipstick, love."

He did as asked, and she took the cloth back from him. "Good acting." She grinned. Ian came to open the door. Sherlock stepped out and waited at the curb for Rebekah to get out. Her long legs emerged from the car and Ian offered her his hand. Sherlock was sure that he noticed her smeared lipstick, but he was well-trained and didn't indicate it. Rebekah whispered in his ear and he nodded. Sherlock offered her his arm. At the door, he reached into his inside jacket pocket for the invitation. The doorman seemed to recognize the name, then scrutinized him. Sherlock didn't like it much, but one of Rebekah's smiles got them through the door.

She leaned over to him. "And now we enter the wolf's den. Be careful Sherlock. Mingle, be pleasant, watch me occasionally. Smile and flirt. And remember – save the last dance for me." She let her hand fall to meet his and laced their fingers. It was an oddly pleasant sensation.

Several other couples approached them. Rebekah seemed to have been right about dazzling the men. Sherlock supposed that he should dazzle the women. But he had to be attracted to her. He noticed one of the men looking Rebekah up and down, despite the fact that a rather pretty woman was dangling from his arm. Sherlock slid his arm around Rebekah's waist and listened in to the conversation.

"Mrs. Scott, it's been too long."

"Peter! I didn't know you'd be here, though of course I should have." She leaned into Sherlock a bit.

The woman on Peter's arm touched Rebekah's hand. "I'm so sorry for your loss, dear. We all miss him." Rebekah didn't believe that statement, Sherlock was sure.

"Yes, he was one of a kind, Elena" she responded, tighter than Sherlock would have imagined her voice should have been when talking about her late husband. It had been some time though, and Sherlock was not exactly clear on how long grief took to resolve in ordinary people, much less in Rebekah.

Others seem to notice the relative distance she put between herself and the past. "But who is this?"

Rebekah turned her head and brushed her lips against Sherlock's cheek. He forced a smile. "Sherlock's been very good to me lately."

Several eyebrows were raised, but Rebekah met each of their looks, and immediately they dissipated. Finally Peter spoke. "Sherlock Holmes, I presume? I should have recognized you from the papers, of course." He extended his hand, and Sherlock shifted Rebekah in his arms to shake it. "You're a lucky chap to have Rebekah on your arm." Elena shifted uncomfortably. There was a deference in Peter's voice for Rebekah that apparently made her uncomfortable.

"So she tells me." He smiled affably and some of the tenseness in the circle released in a bout of laughter.

"Can I steal him for a dance?" Elena asked slyly. She winked inconspicuously at Sherlock, but of course Rebekah noticed. She leaned into him again. Sherlock was amused by her apparent possessiveness, but he couldn't pin down what role she was playing.

"You'd have to ask him, Elena. He's a big boy and can do what he pleases," she caught Sherlock's eye. "So long as he saves the last dance for me."

"Of course, of course." Elena tried to catch Sherlock's eye again. "Shall we dance, then?"

He felt Rebekah nudge him lightly, and he took the hint to accept the invitation. It was a waltz. He took Elena into position and moved across the floor. He tried to keep Rebekah in view. He understood more easily now what she had meant when she'd told him that they were now in the wolf den. He didn't like separating from her here, except that he got that sense that somehow, she was a part of the pack.

At the end of the dance with Elena, another one of the women from the group came up and asked him to dance. And then another. After the fourth dance, Sherlock begged a rest. His eyes moved across the room, looking for Rebekah. She was nowhere to be seen. He began to move with purpose down one wall, scanning first the dancing couples, then those mingling. His gaze paused on the head table, making silent notes about the bride and groom, but it looked like any other rich society wedding.

Elena stopped him. "You look lost dear." She was closer than propriety would have dictated. She also looked mildly intoxicated.

"I was just looking for Rebekah."

"Oh, she stepped out a moment ago with Peter. I'm sure they'll be back again soon."

Sherlock stopped. It had been a concerted effort to keep him away from her, to let Peter get her alone. And now they were missing together. He had let her get out of his sight. "Do you know where they went?"

"Just for a walk, he said." She put her hand on his lapel. "Pass the time with a walk of our own?"

His eyes raked across the room again, looking for some kind of clue. Something that would tell him where Rebekah was and if she was all right. The knot in the pit of his stomach was foreign to him. Well, nearly, he'd felt it before when he'd known he was really going to have to jump. A sense that although the plan was in play, there was so much uncertainty. Where was she?

Elena still had her hand on his collar and he struggled to formulate a response. "So loyal to her. Wonder if she's nearly so loyal to you. Her kind aren't known for it." Elena laughed and released him, turning to take another flute of champagne from a passing tray. "But she must be the best, if she got even Sherlock Holmes to fall for it. It's a marvel she got you to this den of thieves."

"The best?" He was half listening, still scanning the crowd.

"They collect people. Networks and connections. Like spiders building a web."

He had a hard time envisioning Rebekah as a spider. Or a bug of any kind. He caught a glimpse of her dress through a window into the rear garden. He broke away from Elena and walked out the door, grabbing two flutes of champagne as he passed. He slowed his gait as he exited, looking for all the world as though he was just trying to deliver a drink to his date.

"Rebekah, there you are," he said, noticing Peter back up half a step at the sound of his voice. "I figured you might want a bit of refreshment." She moved her purse from her right to left hand and smiled at him as she took the drink.

"I'm glad you found me. How about that last dance?" she leaned lightly against him, as though off balance. She ran his lapel through her fingers. Sherlock didn't mind it nearly as much as he had when it had been Elena.

"Home already? The night is still young."

"And there are many adventures to be had in it." She flashed him a wicked smile. Drunk. Still, he had to protect her.

He hummed in what he imagined was an appreciative manner. "Then last dance it is." He handed his champagne to Peter. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all, not at all." Peter's eyes were on Rebekah's waist. "A pleasure as always, Rebekah."

Sherlock scanned him. No trace of lipstick on him, even though hers was freshly applied. His clothes were in order. On her, that solitary curl still hung perfectly. He would have to be satisfied with that for now.

He walked her to the floor, and she deposited her glass on an empty tray, sliding her wrist through the strap of the handbag as she laid her hand on shoulder. Immediately her posture straightened. Not drunk, he thought. Just acting. "I've got it," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. "Now smile like I've said something that has your thoughts racing."

"Like what?"

"Like I hated every minute I had to watch you sweep those other women off their feet and plan on fully expressing that to you when we get back to the flat." She pressed a quick kiss to the base of his jaw then leaned back into his arms.

Sherlock noticed several people watching and pulled her closer to him. "And how do you propose doing that?"

"Surely even a man absent of sentiment is not absent of that knowledge." He didn't answer, but as the song ended, he kissed her gently. People were watching. "No, surely not," she breathed. She caught the hand he held her cheek with. "But come on. Ian is waiting." She blew a kiss to the bride, who waved at her from over the head of her dance partner, then pulled him out of the door without acknowledging anyone else. As she had said, Ian was waiting, and they slipped into the car.

She began to laugh when the door shut. It was breathy, nervous, and incredibly attractive. Sherlock watched her with curiosity as she leaned back against the seat. "In the morning, I'll have a present for you, Sherlock."

"You don't have one tonight?"

"Oh, I might have one of those too," she stuck out her tongue childishly, the relief of being out of the game overtaking her. "But you've been wanting tomorrow's for quite some time." She slipped off her shoes and leaned over to rest her head on his shoulder.

She was done playing. He could press his advantage, put her in check. "I might have been interested in tonight's long enough."

She stopped laughing and caught his eye. She swallowed thickly. "Don't lie to me, Sherlock."

"I couldn't if I tried." She leaned back to look him over. He gave her a minute, then followed her across the seat. "You said I've been quite good to you."

"You have." She touched his chest. It was warm, heart racing.

"I'll be better." He kissed her again, not nearly so gently. His hand disturbed the curl, and she slid her hand down his chest.

Suddenly she pulled back and pressed the intercom button. "Ian, can you let me out here please?" As the car pulled over, she slipped her shoes back on. He moved to protest, but she held up a hand to stop him. "I told you not to lie to me Sherlock."

He went to follow her, but found his door locked. He slid across the seat but she closed the door. As soon as it clicked shut, the car started moving. He saw her walking away, and almost saw the tears on her cheeks.

When the car dropped him off at Baker Street, he didn't get a chance to ask Ian anything before he drove away. He waited for a long time, thinking she would have to arrive at some point on foot, or perhaps in another taxi. When she never arrived, he mounted the stairs to 221B. Rebekah was missing. He didn't even know what was happening, or anything that had happened that night. But she was missing, and he needed to find her.


	12. Inner Sanctum

He didn't find the key in his pocket until very late. It clanked heavily against the table through his pocket when he discarded his jacket. It was just a door key, wrapped in a paper with her handwriting. 32B Knox Street, London W1H 1FZ. Was this where she was? Had she expected him to follow her? Was this what she had gone to the wedding for? He couldn't place when she'd slipped it into his pocket. He had been distracted a few times, to be sure. Dawn was just coming through the window when he decided to test this key.

Knox Street was less than a mile from 221 Baker Street, and he ran the whole way. What any passersby would have thought about a man in a dress shirt and pants, running through the streets of London at five in the morning he didn't stop to think about or particularly care. He stopped at the door. It was a plain affair, the building all brick. There were three flats listed on the bell, but he put the key into the door. It fit.

He mounted the stairs cautiously. He didn't know what to expect. She might be in danger, she might be alone, she might not be there at all. He reached the flat and put the key in place. He turned it quietly.

"It took you long enough."

She was sitting in the foyer, curled up as she was wont to do, a glass of brandy in her hand. He was relieved. She was still in her dress, legs tucked underneath her, apparently facing the wall of books in front of her. She didn't look at him.

He approached her carefully. He wasn't sure what to say. He'd never been in this situation. Never been refused. Never cared. "You know I don't have…friends."

"Yes." She looked at ease in the chair. Sherlock couldn't come down off his guard in this room. This inner chamber of the enemy's mind palace.

"Or…"

"I know."

"Then…"

"I was foolish for a moment. Even I have moments of weakness. So do you." She stood quickly. She had transformed overnight into a businesswoman. "And here is your bounty, payment for my foolishness." She gestured grandly around the room. "The last known living quarters of Moriarty."

At first he wanted to kiss her, thank her for this, the greatest of gifts. But she was distant and cold. He wouldn't touch her, or give her the satisfaction of knowing he wanted to. Then he saw the glass of brandy, and he wanted to rage at her for contaminating this place. She could have let him come here alone, inspect everything learn what he could and then –

_"Promise me he won't come back," she had said._

Left alone here, with all of Moriarty laid bare in front of him, he could immerse himself in the extraordinary, remove himself from drab daily life. He could become something entirely other than what he was. He could regress. He could become Moriarty again.

She had known that then. She was sitting here now. She still trusted him to come to this place. "How did you find it?"

"It's what I do. I have the connections."

_Collecting people, building networks…like a spider building a web._ Isn't that what Elena had said?

_They would love to stab me in the back, figuratively or literally._

Seeing her sitting there, the past playing like a movie in his head, he realized everything he didn't know about Mrs. Rebekah Scott.

"Then how did you get the key?"

"From Peter. He's easily distracted."

"And if I have the key?"

"Come now Sherlock, you're not this dull." She pulled another copy from her purse. "All better?" She stood up. "Good. Now have at it. From now on, it's all yours."

"They'll come looking."

"No."

"They'll notice the key is missing."

"No, they won't." She passed him at the door. "They won't come here again. Any of them."

She didn't meet his eye when she slipped out the door next to him, carrying her shoes. Barefoot, she was silent as she floated down the steps. He should have said something. He walked into Moriarty's study instead.

She took a deep breath. It was early morning, and she was walking through the streets still dressed from the night before. Other circles called this the walk of shame. She was ashamed, but not for the reasons anyone might have thought. She had turned her back on her old life, but last night, she had played their game, for Sherlock's sake. She had played the game and won.

James had always told her she was good at the game. She was smarter than them. She wasn't an ordinary no-nothing clinging to whatever man brought her to the party. She was a force in and of herself. She had always tried not to be. There had been enough forces of nature around her. Now, it seemed, there was room for her, if she wanted to take it.

That's why she'd had to leave. She'd wanted to take it, to sweep through that world that 007 would have been jealous of, and blow them all away. She wanted to know every detail of it, to control it, and to drag Sherlock in with her.

That was why she left him in the car tonight. She had wanted Sherlock to be with her in that mad endeavor. She'd slipped the key into his pocket and run. She needed air. She needed to think. The brandy in her system dulled the burgeoning ambition. It needed to die. She was not like him, no matter what Mycroft said.

She'd spent the past 5 hours alone in that darkened flat where Moriarty had spent his last few nights. His books in front of her, his notes on the table, and his brandy in the bottle. There was nothing perishable in the place. He had known he wasn't coming back. That was why, in the end, he lost. He had been ready to go, had accepted that it was going to be his fate.

Sherlock had duped him, outwitted his endgame. Sherlock had wanted to live.

There was nothing in that apartment that would turn Sherlock. There were still a few questions of her own that she had to answer. A few crinkled papers in her clutch were the only things to connect her to that flat, though she had never been there before. Moriarty had been on the verge of contacting her. And that terrified her.


	13. Queen Takes King

Sherlock wasn't home. His suit coat was still draped over the chair, showing that he had been at some point, but now he was gone. And he hadn't been home all day. John would have suspected that somehow Rebekah had gotten through to him and he was in 221C, but around noon, a bleary-eyed Rebekah popped in to see if Sherlock was home. She'd been disappointed that he wasn't and gone off again.

John didn't like it. Sherlock disappearing could be completely innocuous, but then again, it could be something deadly. _Where are you? – JW_

_Researching. – SH_

_Thought that's why you had Rebekah's help. – JW_

_She did help. That's why I'm here. She made it home? – SH_

_Yes. You didn't walk her back? She could have been killed. – JW_

There was a long pause, not the lightning quick responses John was used to from Sherlock. _I know. – SH_

Rebekah came by again at 7pm for the game of chess she and Sherlock had been playing every week for months now. She analyzed the board as he had left it. "Knight to queen's bishop. Check," she mumbled. John offered to play when Sherlock never arrived, but she shook her head. "No, I'll just do some work. Thanks though."

_What the hell did you do to her? – JW_

_To Rebekah? Nothing. She left here last night of her own volition. – SH_

_And then you dodge out on your game of chess? Not like you, Sherlock. – JW_

Sherlock cursed, looking at his phone. He had lost track of time. His phone battery was almost dead, and it was nearly 9pm. He had just found one of Moriarty's notebooks, brilliant plans and lists of contacts. Lastrade would appreciate this. He tucked it into his jacket pocket. True to Rebekah's word, no one had disturbed him the entire day.

He cursed himself for losing track of time. He would be disappointed if she didn't come for their game, even if he didn't want to admit it. She was a worthy opponent now that they understood each other's game. He took out his phone. _White . D4 Nf6. I'll be there soon. – SH_

Rebekah was in boxers and a tshirt, pouring herself a cup of coffee and getting ready to read the things she'd pilfered from Moriarty's flat when she got the text. _c4 g6. I thought you'd disappeared. – RS_

_He isn't coming back._ _Nc3 d5. – SH_

She smiled. _No. Hurry up. You owe me. My flat. cxd5 Nxd5. – RS_

He walked quickly. He was only about 15 minutes from Baker Street. She apparently wasn't too sore with him, although he didn't know what he owed her, exactly. He found himself smiling.

_You look fancy. Dinner?_

The text made him pause, but he still didn't respond. He tucked his phone away and walked faster. If she could see him, it didn't make him comfortable.

He hurried down the stairs to 221C. _Open the door. e4 Nxc3. – SH_

He heard her moving inside her flat, then his phone buzzed again. _bxc3 Bg7– RS_

The door opened and she was standing in a pair of boxers and a tshirt, her hair back in a ponytail and not a touch of makeup on. "Your queen's open."

She grinned. "Yes, she is."

It struck his brain all at once, and he stepped forward and kissed her. She let him, then led him in a dance around the door so that she could close it. "Blow me off will you? We'll see about that." She turned away from him, but he caught her waist.

To his surprise, she pinned his arm against her and spun, pushing him off balance and sending them both crashing to the couch. She was still in control of this though, since she still had his hand. He didn't entirely know what was going on. He could identify the games of others, see who was interested in who, know what flirting was fake and what wasn't. But this – being part of this nerve-searing game – this was new. He tried to gather as much information as he could.

She had pinned down his legs with her own bent knees and was looking down at him triumphantly. Her tshirt had lifted on the left side and the top of her hip bone was visible. She was grinning that Cheshire cat grin again. "What is it?"

"Not everyone can get the best of Sherlock Holmes."

"You think you have?"

"I know I have."

He slid his hand just above her hip bone. Her grin faded.

She wasn't expecting him to tickle her, and her body lurched in reaction. He took advantage of it to flip their positions, his knees on each side of her hips, his feet pushing against her knees to hold her legs down. Now he was grinning.

"Touché," she conceded.

She pushed herself up, sliding her hips back so that she her legs were still under his, but she could sit up. "Queen takes king."

"You can't take the king."

"Oh, you can't?" She leaned in to kiss him, but stopped just short.

"No." He played her game, just holding there, their lips almost touching as they spoke. "Queen can't take the king. But the king can take the queen." He pushed her back down, kissing her collarbone. "You are the most infuriating woman." He unfastened one button of his now-untucked shirt. "Each time I think I understand you, you do something to invert it. And then you upend it again. You're like a washing machine."

She laughed and undid one more of his buttons. He decided he rather liked the help. "A washing machine, hm? Well, you sure know how to highlight the romance of household appliances."

"Romance isn't exactly my forte."

"You're not doing a bad turn. But here's my recommendation."

"What?"

"Shut up." She pressed her lips to his and wrapped her legs around his hips. She squealed when he stood up, carrying her with him.

"Not enough room on the sofa."

"Bedroom's that way."

Sherlock thought he should stop to reflect, to observe and understand what was going on. He thought he should disengage from Rebekah's body and talk to her about last night. About this morning. About anything and everything. He thought he should engage that radiant brain of hers. His body told him to stop thinking.

It was better than being drunk.

She was up before him again. He didn't know why he slept so soundly when he was here. In his own flat, he was always up. He could go days without sleeping. Last night he had collapsed into oblivion. Granted, he had exerted himself quite a bit beforehand. He rolled over and looked at the clock. 6am. He sighed, and the sound of it brought her to the door. "Up already?"

She was nude. Not in the provocative sense that The Woman had been, as a test of Sherlock's abilities. Rebekah was just in her own home, in her own bed, and Sherlock happened to have found himself a welcome guest there. He stretched, but didn't touch her. This was still foreign to him. He watched as she sat down on the edge of the mattress, setting a second cup of tea on the table beside the bed. She was not classically-shaped as The Woman was. But his hands had roamed most of those curves last night, and they were much more pleasing, he imagined.

He sat up, and the chill in the air in the reminded him that fall was coming. His shirt was gone, discarded into some corner of the room. He picked up the tea and tried to manage as much decorum as possible. She finished her tea and leaned against his free shoulder while he sipped his. Neither of them said anything. He wagered that both of their minds were running wild with thoughts and theories. None of them were worth expressing out loud. He found that his free hand had drifted up to play with a lock of her hair, then trailed down her shoulder.

Across the room, tucked into his jacket pocket, his phone buzzed. She moved to get it for him, but he held her hand. She looked at him, confused. "Just pretend it didn't."

She rolled toward him and kissed his cheek. It was such a simple gesture, but so strange to him. She was so familiar with him. Then again, they were in the same bed, neither with a stitch of clothing on, and only her linens covering any part of either of them. "Can I make one request, Sherlock?"

He ran his hand up her arm. "Of course."

"Don't analyze it. It'll be done to death if you do."

He thought over the night before. He just had one question that he couldn't answer. "When did a game of chess become… this?" He gestured at them.

She laughed, and it was contagious. She slid under the covers with him again, her cool skin a welcome feeling to him. "Chess is a game of strategy that is most like war. Love is a game of strategy not unlike war. They're virtually the same, then."

"Except one involves real bodies and isn't so calculated."

"Just like that." She turned on her side and looked at him. "So there was a lot of strategy, and lot of moving around, and a lot of trying to outthink the other person. And then, when it came down to the endgame, no thought was required. The nice part is that we can both win instead having to decide on a draw." She nestled her head onto his chest. "Sherlock?"

"Rebekah?"

"Stop thinking. I can practically hear your brain whirring."

"I'm not sure I can on my own. I've only done it twice before. Once with your alcohol, once with your body."

"Then let's make it three, shall we?" She grinned wickedly, and Sherlock found the thoughts receding from his mind.


	14. The Old Knight

Rebekah shook her head at her phone. _Come quickly. – SH_

_Working. – RS_

_Then put it down for a moment and come upstairs. – SH_

_At the bar. –RS_

_Come anyway. – SH_

_Very well. At the end of my shift. – RS_

She tucked her phone into her back pocket and looked back up for the next customer. The bar wasn't busy yet – it was still early in the night – and she was just filling in. She frowned when a familiar face came through the door and sat directly in front of her at the bar. "I'll take a whiskey sour." She nodded and set to work. "I can't say that I would have believed the gossip if I wasn't seeing you with my own eyes. To think, Rebekah Scott a bartender."

She shot him a withering look. "I tend bar, there's a difference." She slid his drink to him.

"Yes, well, you know there are certain expectations of you now…"

"To hell with them."

Peter took a slow drink. "Not bad. But all the same, there are people who expect you to take over now that he's dead."

"I'm a widow now, not his successor."

"I would be tempted to believe it… if you didn't have Sherlock Holmes on a leash."

"There's no leash that would hold that man."

He circled his finger around the pinky of the other hand. "All wrapped up around your little finger. You might be better than Moriarty at this game."

"That," she snapped, "is not the game I'm playing." She toweled off a few glasses.

"You may not have a choice. Someone has to do it. If not, everything will go to hell."

"James wouldn't allow it."

"James is dead, as you love to remind everyone." Peter lazily dragged his finger across the edge of the glass. "Is big brother watching you?"

"Of course. They have been my entire life."

He chuckled. "But now they have a reason to."

"You forget so much when it's convenient, Peter. My husband shouldn't have trusted you."

Peter held up his hands in mock surrender. "I will own up to that. But you are not your husband. You are not James." He leaned in. "You are a miraculous creature in your own right."

She rolled her eyes and took a drink order from another customer. As she shook the tumbler of shots, she thought. Peter had come here, of course, since her presence at the wedding had opened up contact. She'd done a fine job of avoiding them. Since James had died so recently, she hadn't wanted to see any of her old circles. And yet, somehow, for Sherlock's little quest, she was throwing herself headlong into it. She silently cursed him. Still, it had been inevitable.

"The old knight is on guard, too, you know."

Peter laughed. "Of course he is. He has so many sins to pay for." Peter put his glass down. "Watch it or you'll pay for them too. He's only lenient once, I hear. He missed his chance to strike back, and it grates on him." He laid down several bills. "You'll need us soon enough, I'd wager. When you find what made you come looking for me in the first place."

He winked and walked back out the way he came, like the dozens of other bar patrons. Rebekah scoffed. She didn't need his patronage or his warnings, his conspiracies or his information. She was doing just fine. She looked back at her phone. Sherlock had texted her twice more.

_It's urgent. – SH_

_Nevermind. - SH_

She ignored them and went back to work. She wanted to curse them all. Instead she pulled a Newcastle for an American tourist.


	15. Last and Only Contact

"You have to eat, you know. It's a basic requirement of human function."

Rebekah stood in the doorway to 221B, shaking her head as Sherlock scribbled notes from a book he'd taken from Moriarty's flat. He'd watched it for a week, and no one else had come by. It was strange that Peter hadn't done anything when he found the key missing. He needed to ask Rebekah where she'd learned that Peter had the key, and who Peter was. There were occasional references to him in Moriarty's last notebook calling him his "last and only contact." He wasn't yet sure what that meant. What it did spell out rather more explicitly was that Peter had been part of some sort of failed plot early in Moriarty's career, and as a result, Moriarty had ruined him.

"I think better when my digestion isn't pulling blood away from my mind. There's only so much of it to go around." She grinned and sat next to him on his chair. John raised an eyebrow from across the table, but said nothing. Sherlock had been infinitely less of a prick since starting whatever relationship he now had with Rebekah. John had seen or talked to Mary nearly every day for the past fortnight, and it was impossible to justify any jealousy of Rebekah after only one failed date.

"Yes, Sherlock, pulling blood away from the mind is a terrible, awful thing." She winked at him when John wasn't looking. "But if you don't put some sugar in that beautiful machine of yours, it will grind to a slow halt." She grinned wider. "Besides, I've taken care of Rule 7 for you."

Sherlock groaned. He'd nearly forgotten. "Oh very well."

John perked up. "Rule 7?"

Rebekah stood up, clearly victorious in this matter. "Part of our original rules of engagement. Chess was Rule 2. Sherlock taking me to dinner was Rule 7."

"You have a rule about that?"

"One has to have clear expectations, no?"

"If only all women would be so straightforward."

"Honestly, are most women less straightforward than she is? Because she is baffling sometimes."

Rebekah wrapped a light scarf around her neck. She'd just been to Italy for a weekend trip to get some information for her job. When Sherlock had argued that her assistance with Moriarty was her job, she'd commented that it didn't quite pay the rent, so unless he was planning on letting her move in to 221B, she had just better be off. He hadn't made a fuss after that.

It was September, and Rebekah had been a resident for nearly six months, and a regular at their flat for almost a month. It was becoming a comfortable balance. If things continued this well with Mary… John shook the thought from his head, but wondered if he wouldn't have to worry quite so much about leaving Sherlock alone. Maybe Rebekah was the reason he didn't worry so much.

"You know that I revel daily in the fact that I baffle Sherlock Holmes?" She brushed a finger across the top of the mantelpiece, judging whether she should dust. Her level of cleanliness meant that she was upset with the state of the place long before either bachelor even noticed. "And really, poor Yorick is going to suffocate under all of this."

"Exposure to dust can help with allergies. Just doing our part to keep him healthy." Sherlock made a few more scribbles.

Rebekah picked up the skull. "Yes, when you're young. I hate to tell you this, but I think poor Yorick might be a bit past his prime." She put the skull back down and brushed off the top. "That will have to do for now." She sneezed, and John laughed.

She stood behind Sherlock and rubbed her thumbs over his shoulders. "Come on now, Sherlock, we have reservations."

"Really now? That's intriguing. Where on earth are we going that we need reservations, yet you haven't told me to dress up."

She laughed. "You haven't even looked at me since I walked in this door, have you?"

"No."

She took his face in her hands and turned it toward her. She was wearing a little black dress and heels, a string of pearls draped along her collarbone just peeking out from under the scarf. "Ian will be here in five minutes."

"Well then." Sherlock turned his head back away and scribbled some more. Rebekah looked over his shoulder and read. It was code, but Sherlock's codes weren't especially difficult to break anymore. She filed it away for later, but thought that the name Peter came up entirely too often for her liking.

"Very well. John, are you interested in dinner at…"

Sherlock cut her off. "Don't try that, madam. I'm coming. But if I recall, you said I have five minutes."

"Three and a half, now."

"You do this to infuriate me."

"Only a little." She adjusted his collar, a gesture he had come to accept as reassuring from her. "But let's leave John to get ready for his rendezvous with Mary, shall we?"

"John's not going out, are you, John?"

John shifted back and pulled out two tickets to the symphony. "Actually I am."

Sherlock seized the tickets. "These have been sold out for weeks, and you didn't have them last week, I'm sure of that."

Rebekah touched the tip of her nose and started out the door. "Come on, Sherlock, don't be dull. Ian's at the door by now."

Sherlock handed the tickets back to John. "She gets into everything, doesn't she?"

"Terrible, isn't it?" responded John sarcastically. "Enjoy dinner."

Sherlock mumbled something on the way out as he followed Rebekah down the stairs. He stopped her with her hand on the doorknob and kissed her soundly. They had an unspoken rule to not be overtly affectionate outside the flat. It was too common, too unlike them. Not that Sherlock was often overtly affectionate inside the flat. But Rebekah prodded him and taunted him out of his intellectual shell occasionally. Those were the nights she was winning this game they played.

When he was quite done kissing her, she opened the door. Sure enough, Ian was waiting. "Mrs. Scott, Mr. Holmes." At least now the driver seemed to know who he was. Sherlock didn't touch her arm except to help her into the car. As she slid across, his phone beeped.

_Dinner?_

She was watching him, he realized. It could have been a compliment, if there were a goal. She should have been out of the country by now, living a boring little life somewhere in New Brunswick. But the point was that she would be living. She had sent him a goodbye, but now seemed unable to keep her own distance. Sentiment was becoming a problem for her. He didn't respond.

"Problems?"

"Nothing that can't be dealt with at a later moment."

Ian pulled up in front of an Italian bistro. It seemed like the kind to cater to the wealthy and the famous. There were hedgerows to keep out prying eyes, and a maître d at the front door that doubled as security. There was no visible parking area, no bus stops nearby. This place was made for those with drivers.

Rebekah barely had to say her name before the maître d smiled broadly. "Mrs. Scott, it has been too long. We are very glad indeed to have you back in our company."

"Thank you Ahmed. I'm sorry it's been so long. It's just been a whirlwind of changes lately."

Ahmed bowed. His accent was still Italian, and Sherlock supposed he was the product of the easy immigration the modern world possessed – near heritage is Arabic, born and raised in Italy, but flawless English. "Yes of course, Mrs. Scott. We have your table ready. Right this way."

She took Sherlock's arm and walked through the restaurant. It was dimly lit and sectioned off, further reinforcing the idea that this place was meant to be a haven for those who didn't want to be noticed. He made a mental note to ask her what exactly her husband had done. He wasn't sure when was an appropriate moment to ask questions about one's paramour's late-husband. He didn't like not being sure. It put him in a foul mood.

At the table though, Rebekah deferred to him in every way. He ordered the wine – a California cabernet– to complement the chef's special. The waiter stopped looking to Rebekah for confirmation by the time that Sherlock ordered dessert for both of them. They were chatting over their coffee about her trip to Italy, waiting for their chocolate confections to arrive, when the illusion of privacy was broken.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, she told me I might find you here."

Both he and Rebekah looked at the beautiful woman approaching them. Sherlock placed her quickly, though he had only seen her twice. "Did she? And why would she care where she could find me?"

"Oh, you know why, Mr. Holmes. And she told me to give you something." Kate leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. The corner of his eye caught Rebekah sit up straighter in her chair.

"I see Ms. Adler hasn't changed a bit, dead or alive." Rebekah's voice was tight, almost foreign to Sherlock's ears. With one sentence, she had taken complete control of the table.

Kate turned slowly, her eyes widening and her breathing growing shallow. "Mrs. Scott. I didn't… that is to say that she didn't know that you would be here."

Rebekah took a calm sip of her black coffee, never breaking eye contact with Kate. "Oh, I'll wager she didn't know it was me, exactly. But her information has likely placed a woman at 221 Baker Street, and since the entrance is one and the same, she finds it rather disconcerting that her pet might have another predilection. As Sherlock still doesn't respond to her texts, she's not certain if she is still special or if he's just lost interest. So she's sent you to ascertain my identity." She motioned toward herself. "Voila." She took another long sip of her coffee, during which both Sherlock and Kate were silent. "Although I must say, kudos to her for finding where we were, and for getting you in."

Kate began to say something, but closed her mouth. She looked frightened, and Rebekah softened. "My dear, this game is getting to be old hat. Tell Ms. Adler that there is a certain Syrian who is dangerously close to finding out that she is not as dead as she is supposed to be. She ought to be more careful. She ought to be in Canada." She paused, considering. "Oh, and give her this for me. Consider it a goodwill gesture." She took a small box from her purse, no bigger than a ring box, and gave it to Kate. "Now if you'll excuse me, I believe that our dessert has arrived. Give her my regards."

Rebekah's gut was churning. She didn't want dessert, she wanted Kate to be gone. She wanted Irene Adler to be gone. She wanted the look of interest in Ms. Adler that was on Sherlock's face to go away. She didn't want to have to play this game anymore. She should have left London. Brighton was more boring, but there was no one there who really had any inkling of who she was.

Kate simply nodded. "Mrs. Scott, Mr. Holmes." She walked as quickly as decorum could manage from their small section just as the waiter arrived.

"Why are you crying?"

She looked up at him. "I'm not crying."

"You're biting the inside of your cheek to keep yourself in check." He leaned across the table toward her. "More importantly, what was all that?"

"That," she said briskly, "was the jealous side of me. It isn't particularly my favorite."

"You knew who she was."

"Of course. When one is in the information business, it helps to know your competition. And until her unfortunate _demise_," she slanted the word, "she was the only one near my level."

"You do a very dangerous kind of research, don't you?"

"All knowledge is power, all power corrupts. I'm in the business of selling corruption, Sherlock. Surely you didn't imagine all of my projects to be altruistic." She was pulling away, growing more distant with every syllable.

"How did you find out about the key?"

"All doors have keys." She was playing with him.

"Rebekah." His voice was hard, though he tried to keep the accusation out of it.

"I told you Sherlock, everyone knows me, or thinks they do." It was almost audible when her last defense slipped into place. She was not Rebekah, she was this Mrs. Scott that everyone seemed to understand better than he did. "Would you like the story, then? I was married to a high ranking agent in the secret service. It was a marriage of convenience for both of us, though I did grow to care for him. I'm not certain the same could ever be said inversely. I learned things – everything – for him, and he was paid very well by the British government for my fact-finding and his ability to parlay that into strategy. He was executed for treason last year, a very hush hush affair." She closed her eyes. "A non-traditional execution, I suppose, and a warning. I was to quit playing this game. They knew I had nothing to do with his deals, only with finding out information. I was given no uncertain terms that if I did not work solely for them, I should not work at all."

He said nothing for a long moment, and she blinked heavily several times. She was crying, about that he had been right, but she would be damned if she let him see it.

Her phone buzzed. She gritted her teeth. "If… If I don't come back tonight Sherlock… Don't wait for me." She took a deep breath and sent a text. "Ian's at the door for you." She stood, touching his hand gently, trying to meet his eyes. He stared at her with a hardness he hadn't used in some time. "In case this is goodbye…"

"Of course it isn't, you live in the flat below." There was finality in his words. She was his downstairs neighbor, that was all.

Sherlock did not like to be wrong. He did not like not knowing things. It made him cross. And Rebekah Scott was a continuous mystery. He was, as John would put it, being a prick.

Rebekah only nodded and walked away. He tried to follow her track, to catch a glimpse of her on the other side of the divider, but she never reappeared. He called the waiter over, but was told that the bill had been paid. When he couldn't see her on the way out, he left. He was put out. He was nervous. He hurt in ways that made no physical sense. He did not want to see Mrs. Scott's face for quite some time.

She sat lightly on the edge of the chair in the private room. "You could have stopped that."

"Why? It let me know so much about my little brother's doings."

"You could just spy on him better."

Mycroft sat back, his fingers tented. "I have the best in the business. I have you."

"Not anymore you don't."

"It was a worthy trade. Ms. Adler is alive, by my brother's hand. She's in England, though she should be in Canada. And she is not safe. Tell me about that soon." He looked at her frown and tutted. "Sentiment, as I have often warned my brother, is not an advantage. It's for the common. You are not common, my dear Mrs. Scott. Besides, it was you who chose to play this game in the first place, and I did warn you."

"You did."

"We have a bit of business to attend to, since it seems you haven't quite stopped your little fact-finding missions. Do you mind telling me about that wedding several weeks ago? I think I would find the guest list just fascinating." Mycroft leaned forward over his tea and slid her an envelope. She opened it, bit her lip, and began her confession.


	16. Rebekah

Sherlock picked the lock on 221C Baker Street as soon as he got home. He was angry. He knew anger wasn't conducive to clear thinking, but he needed to know, to understand how it was she'd gotten under his skin. How had he let her? He rummaged through drawers, pulling things open, apart, carefully, meticulously replacing them. He found the bug – clearly government work. It hadn't been particularly well concealed, so how had she not found it? He disregarded it.

He moved to her desk. He was obsessed with this search now, with flushing every detail about her shadowed life out into his view. He went through the drawers. There were files on every conceivable subject, the documents written in a code he couldn't break offhand. Holmes, Sherlock. He snatched at the file. It was… empty. He found himself disappointed, but launched back into the task at hand.

Moriarty, James. He grabbed that file, bursting at the seams as it was, to take to his apartment to go over. He would crack the code. His eyes scanned the rest of the files. Next to where his finger was still holding the place, his eyes caught a handwritten file tab and he stopped cold. Of course, it all made sense now. Every last bit of it. He'd been duped. He'd been played. He opened the file. In it were only two things. The first was an envelope with his name on it. The second was an envelope with the words "The Final Clue" written in thin handwriting he thought he should recognize. He tore into this first.

Marriage License for Alexander Scott and Rebekah Smith. A rather generic last name.

Birth certificate for one Evelyn Rebecca Moriarty.

His phone buzzed. It was The Woman. He ignored it.

He took up the second envelope. It was her handwriting, but she had been nervous to write it. Why had she addressed an envelope –seemingly both envelopes – in a file about Evelyn Moriarty to him? Inside this envelope a single piece of paper. _And so you've won the game._ _– RS (née ERM)_

His phone buzzed again. It was from her. That woman. The deceitful, lying, brilliant woman that she was.

_c4 NxQ. - RS_

It meant nothing. A chess move, but they hadn't been playing. And why would she waste his precious time with that? She had revealed herself to be the centerpiece of what he was chasing – the sense that Moriarty was not dead, that something continued to operate at his behest. It had been her. She had been the one acting like a spider. Making him dance.

He took a small stack of files and went back to 221B. Let her come for them. He'd tear her down to size, rip her apart for deceiving him.

He took out three nicotine patches and set to work. By midnight, he had cracked the code used for the file on Moriarty. By 5am he had read the entirety of the file and was realizing what an ass he was being. By 5:15am he was staring at her text, desperately trying to decipher it.

James Moriarty had a younger sister he called Becky. Becky was the wild child, always taking risks her brother would not. James cared for this sister dearly, and they confided in one another – two brilliant minds in a dull suburban world. By the time they were teenagers, James had moved into crime, taking no risks, classically outplaying everyone else. Except Becky. She had confronted him about the crimes that she was tracing back to him. He had convinced her that it would be his death if she exposed him, and she kept quiet. For awhile he used her, played her affection for him to his advantage. Her mind was more brilliant than his in some ways, and acquiring information was not his strong suit – developing the strategy was. When she realized, belatedly, what was going on, she began to report on him.

No matter how much James cared about his little sister, he couldn't have her ruining his plans. He began to double-cross her. He had, after all, just found out about Sherlock Holmes, and had to test the mettle of this upstart little detective. There were games to be played, and big brother had no desire for his little sister to be around. He had begun to systematically delete her. First her birth certificate disappeared, then she couldn't swipe her card at the petrol station. Slowly, piece by piece, her existence was gone.

Evelyn Moriarty had become a Jane Smith. She'd taken the alias as her own. But no matter how deep Moriarty buried her, it seemed that Mycroft had the ability to resurrect her. He had struck a deal through various contacts – he could give her a life in exchange for her talents. The same kind of arrangement she had with her brother emerged. The secret service had a man talented at strategy, but weak with collecting information. There was a sham marriage to bring her back into existence. She was well paid, lavished with gifts. Alexander kept his string of mistresses on the side. She watched her brother manipulate the world without any apparent effort, and she played in the shadows, just out of his reach.

Until he discovered she was distracting him. He had a new goal – he wanted to destroy Sherlock Holmes. She was keeping him from his quarry. She was using her network to give him irresistible new leads that only panned out half of the time – there was string of bodies to pay for this. So he had her husband convicted of treason. The British government believed it, but exonerated her. They'd put the gun in her hands and told her that one of the two Scotts could go on living - it washed their hands of the matter, since it took both of them to continue the spying game. Alexander expected the self-sacrificing wife he had come to know.

She had played the grieving widow beautifully in St. Andrews, but had been moved to Brighton for observation. Six months she'd sat on the seaside, waiting.

Then it was coincidence that brought her here. She'd heard of her brother's death, needed to come back to London. She knew of Sherlock because his fall had the traces of her brother's poison about it. She had expected to observe, to bait, to play. To see if her brother had been what she thought he had by testing his last and greatest theory – that Sherlock Holmes was not an ordinary man.

There was a handwritten note as the last page in Moriarty's file. _And now they believe ERM carries on the game. Tis a dangerous web we weave. - MH_

Mycroft's hand.

He looked at the text again. Why chess move? What did it have to do with anything? He paced the room, looking down at his chessboard. And then it was clear.

If he moved the knight… "Knight takes queen."

"Well Ms. Scott, I believe everything is in order." Mycroft paused. "Do you care to continue going by that name? Or would something else suit you better?"

She smiled ruefully. "Nothing that is an option."

"Do tell."

"I've done quite enough telling to last several lifetimes."

"And kept twice as many secrets."

"A woman's prerogative."

"Not for a woman with a proverbial gun to her temple."

Rebekah was quiet for a long moment. "Do you know how your brother beat mine, in the end?"

Mycroft remained silent, tilting his head to indicate that she should continue. "Because Sherlock wanted something beyond that rooftop. All of James' plans went into that cat and mouse game – all of his resources pooled into madness with no exit strategy. He had every advantage, except the will to exist among that which he disdained as ordinary. Sherlock… he believes himself extraordinary, but a part of him longs to be one of the angels sometimes."

Mycroft cracked an icy smile. "Perhaps he does. But you, my dear, do you wish to fly like the sainted angels as well?"

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I suppose you're not leaving me much of a choice."

"Not much of one, no." He handed her back her phone. "You have three hours."


	17. Endgame

Sherlock was already in a taxi by the time he phoned his brother. "Hello, dear brother, what mischief have you been up to lately?"

Mycroft glanced at his watch. "No more than the usual. What has merited me a call from my recently-esteemed younger sibling?"

"A game of chess," was Sherlock's quick reply. "What have you done with her, Mycroft?"

"What's best to be done with those of her sort. I made the mistake once, twice if you count Ms. Adler, which I certainly must now that I know she's alive."

"Mycroft…"

"If you think the knowledge that you'll be upset with me will sway me, you've been affected more than I thought. Sentiment is not an advantage, Sherlock. You know this."

"Where is she, Mycroft?"

"You don't have time."

"So there's a time limit, hm? Until what?"

"Your first and only clue, Sherlock, but I do advise you to keep your nose out of this. It will mix you up in things you don't want to be mixed up in." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a difficult duty, to be big brother to one such as Sherlock. "Until she flies."

Mycroft was good at revenge. He didn't have to wait for anger to chill – he retaliated on strategy and principle, not emotion. He had programmed the texts that she was able to send. She thought that they were rather poetic for such a prosaic man. _On the side of the angels. –RS_

A final lie for his brother to swallow, all in the name of saving Sherlock from himself. She wondered if Mycroft could account for the number of times Sherlock had saved him either directly or collaterally. She doubted it.

She smiled her way past security and scanned the card – a parting gift from Mycroft. The door to the morgue unlocked. A mousey woman was behind a stereo microscope. She cleared her throat gently. "Molly Hooper?" The woman looked up, clearly confused.

"Yes?"

Rebekah smiled softly. "Oh good. I was hoping I could ask you a favor."

Molly was uncomfortable. She was never very good at social situations, and to have strange women asking her for favors while they were in the morgue was creepy, to say the least.

"It isn't anything much. Just, when Sherlock comes through next, can you pass him a note for me? I fear that I'll miss him as I go."

"He hasn't been in much lately."

"He might be."

"Who are you?"

Rebekah thought for a moment. "A mutual acquaintance."

"You're the new neighbor – the woman who moved in to the basement flat."

Rebekah smiled again. "Please tell me Sherlock has never called you ordinary."

Molly thought. "No, I don't think he has. Would that be bad, then?"

Rebekah didn't answer directly. "You're not, not at all. That's the problem with people who think that they're better than ordinary just because they're not normal. Extraordinary is nothing to be proud of, sometimes." She scribbled a brief note, then handed it to Molly. As the other woman took it, she considered her carefully. "Can I tell you something , woman to woman?" Molly didn't respond, but didn't look away. "He should have picked you. But you are better off without him."

Molly opened her mouth to protest that she didn't know what this strange woman was talking about, but all that came out was, "I know."

Rebekah held her gaze for a moment, then nodded. "Give this to him? And I would appreciate it if you didn't open it."

"I would never."

Rebekah nearly grinned. "Of course not. I'm sorry, it just seems like everything is fair game to Sherlock and his ilk. I do appreciate it, Ms. Hooper." She walked to the door.

"Who shall I say it's from?"

"He'll know. But for your curiosity, my name is…Rebekah." She let the door swing shut behind her and let out a long-held breath. There was one last sight to see.

Mycroft sat alone in his office, pondering on this new development. He'd been there, seen the evidence. Sherlock should be done with her. And her poor heartbreak would show him just how ordinary she had been. Sherlock would be safe, until he managed to embroil himself with another problem. The fact that Mrs. Scott had dispatched with the Irene Adler issue was a pleasant side effect.

Mycroft was not heartless. He cared for his brother, though he had limited means and scope to demonstrate it. Protecting him was the best he could manage. This was the best he could offer.

"She's been here." When Sherlock burst into the morgue, it was a statement, not a question. He looked to Molly anyway, and something in her heart just broke. Sherlock was desperate. She'd seen that look on his face before, when he'd needed her help to fake his own death. Something was very wrong.

"Who?" She still had to be sure.

"Rebekah." He said it as though it should be answer enough.

"She stopped by here. She left this for you." True to her word, Molly hadn't touched the letter. She slid it across the desk toward Sherlock.

He stopped for half a moment. "I am sorry, Molly." It was the most he could say. He didn't have the time. He didn't quite understand what he was apologizing for.

She sniffled back a tear and turned to run some samples. Sherlock silently promised to make this up to her somehow. Whatever this was. He didn't understand this kind of interaction. Rebekah did. He opened the piece of paper, carefully folded into a paper dove. It had only one word.

_Endgame._

She looked at the windows in the building just across, trying to figure out exactly which one her brother's assassin would have chosen for the most important task – to kill John Watson or Sherlock Holmes. She figured the fifth story stairwell would have made a good choice. A level shot over the trees toward St. Bart's, able to take out John as he emerged from the taxi.

She turned and paced. Her phone showed that she had just over thirty minutes left. It was curious, this detachment. It was convenient that Sherlock already hated her. John might wonder, but Sherlock would explain that she was born a traitor. Rebekah Moriarty would be the nearest identity they could comprehend and pin on her.

Moriarty, Evelyn. Ending her life where her brother had tried to end that of Sherlock Holmes. Steps from where he had taken his own life. Killed in vengeance by her own hand. Simultaneously destroying Evelyn Moriarty, Evelyn Smith, Rebecca Smith, and Rebekah Scott. The quickest, easiest murder of so many people. Perhaps some of them were already dead. She hadn't bothered to check.

She found the dark blood spot, a stain that the rain couldn't quite wash out, but perhaps it was in her mind. It was still less than a year before. "Not ordinary. But still on the side of the angels." She took a few deep breaths, then walked toward the edge of the building. There was only one text message left in her phone, courtesy of Mycroft.

_Goodbye._

It was unsigned. It was final. She hit send.

The view from the ledge was beautiful. It was grand and terrifying and laid out the city of London like a grave for her. Strange, for someplace otherwise so full of life. She wondered if she should swan dive. Now that would make the papers, wouldn't it? And then Mycroft could have his dues paid – using her death to bring the Moriarty plot to life. Brilliant sibling genius of the criminal of the century, kills herself after falling for Sherlock Holmes. Ashamed of the part she'd played in her brothers schemes. It would resurrect Sherlock's reputation. It would wipe Mycroft's slate, as far as he was concerned.

She reconsidered the window and smirked. That was his guarantee. In her mind's eye she saw the Czech assassin, paid for a second hit from the same vantage point, promised the freedom he would not get at Mycroft's hands, his mark ready on her forehead. She waved. She hoped it disconcerted him. She was in a foul mood. She hated to die in a foul mood.

Sherlock ran up the last set of stairs, his lungs burning. If he hadn't ran so far already, it wouldn't have been a struggle, but he'd known it was a race against time, and he didn't know how much time. Now he was so close. He leaned heavily against the door to shove it open.

He heard the clip of sound, sharp and metallic. His mouth went dry. He ran toward the edge of the building. His brain registered the fact that there was a body lying by the edge of the roof, just off the ledge. He stopped, standing over where she lay, his eyes blurred. Tears, he realized. He disapproved, and as he went to wipe them away, something remarkable happened.

She pulled him to the ground, hard.

"You stupid git." She kissed him. "Stay down. I'm not sure if I got him yet. Hard to see through the glass."

"You shot?"

"Of course. He wouldn't have missed if I let him shoot first. He was a dead man walking anyway. He'd made a deal with the devil."

The way she spat the last bit made him understand. "Mycroft."

She shrugged. "It's what I would have done if I had the same guilt to assuage regarding my brother. Kill the one who killed him."

"But I'm alive. And you had nothing to do with it."

"I think you're brother is an Old Testament type man."

"An eye for an eye."

"Exactly." She listened for a long moment, then peeked a cosmetic mirror up over the edge with her left hand. The window she aimed at was broken. She couldn't tell much else from here. But it had been a good shot across the square. She would have to risk it at some point. "Sorry for the kiss, by the way." She shifted uncomfortably away from Sherlock. "Stress response." She grinned. "I'll bet you had one hell of a snog with Molly after you fell."

"How did you know that?"

"Because I'm a woman, because Molly Hooper thought she was in love with you, and because even Sherlock Holmes is a man. It's why you haven't been to St. Bart's in months, it's why Molly stopped being invited to social gatherings, it's why she is ready to finally cut you out of her life." She jumped up, waiting for the retaliation shot. Nothing. She smiled and sat down, her head still above the roof line. "Sorry, harsh truths."

"You're alive."

"For now."

"But you're right, Molly matters. What do I do about that?"

"Nothing. You avoided her long enough she's done something. Grown a spine and moved on. You should have done it ages ago. You're terrible for her." She leaned back against the ledge, taking a deep breath. "How did you jump? I was so scared, Sherlock." Her hands started to tremble violently.

Sherlock took them in his. "You're in shock."

"Probably."

"You need warmed up."

"Probably."

He wrapped his jacket around her and held her against him. He should be taking her downstairs, find a doctor to treat her. But he wanted the feel of her against him, the sensation of her breath on the side of his neck, her heartbeat faintly pumping the blood that meant she was still alive. He'd have to have a word with Mycroft.

It may have been an hour when she woke up from the nap she fell into. "You know."

"Yes."

"And you came."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I had to."

"No, this was your freedom. The way to pretend I had beguiled you, but you had discovered me. I'm a Moriarty, after all."

"Funny thing, that. I've never met this Evelyn Moriarty. Except for that bit in your file, she doesn't exist anywhere. She's been wiped from the map."

"He was still my brother, Sherlock. No matter how we might gloss it over."

"And he tried to kill me. Succeeded, in a sense." She flinched. He continued. "And my brother, in his benevolent wisdom, tried to assassinate you. It's almost an honor to have Mycroft so directly involved in one's death."

"I'll keep that in mind next time."

"And now you've killed his assassin."

"It was my brother's too. I'll imagine it was a sort of plea bargain deal."

Sherlock laughed when it all clicked. "He was recreating that moment as best he could."

"Your brother is a master revenger," she tucked her cheek tighter against his chest.

"I won't let him again."

"You can't protect me from everyone. Though I can't understand why you'd want to."

"In the interest of honesty, neither can I." He pulled out his phone. The Woman's text finally pushed its way to the top. _Sorry for your loss. Dinner?_

He pulled away from Rebekah far enough to return a text. _Already have dinner plans. – SH_

Then he put the phone to his ear. "Mycroft. Call off the dogs. This isn't a request. And for god's sake let me avenge my own death from now on." He ended the call before his brother could respond.

"Now then. I believe I actually owe you dinner."

"I'm afraid I don't feel much like going out." She started laughing against his arm.

"What?"

"I nearly asked if you can cook."

"Well, no, but I do have an idea."

"God save us all when Sherlock Holmes has an idea." The sun was just now fully risen over the top of London. "Can we go home before you implement this great idea of yours?"

"Of course…" He frowned. "Although, I'm not sure what to call you."

"Call me?"

"Evelyn, Rebekah…"

"Rebekah."

"Rebekah what?"

She laughed, and Sherlock had never been so pleased with a sound.


	18. Thank God for the Church of England

Rebekah held herself back from shoving the cup of tea at Mycroft. She wasn't especially pleased that he was here, at her table. It had been less than a year since he'd tried to kill her. Sherlock was supposed to be home at any moment, but she couldn't exactly turn the elder Holmes out. Denying Mycroft anything was always a dangerous game, and she was so tired of games she could hardly bear it.

"I don't have to like this, Rebekah."

"No, you don't."

Sherlock was helping John take the last of his boxes to Mary's flat. John and Mary were an adorable newlywed couple, though the separation had taken its toll on both Sherlock and John. John had confessed to Rebekah that morning that he'd worried about leaving Sherlock alone when the day finally came. Then he'd laughed and said that now she was the one who was stuck with him. She'd rolled her eyes and put the box in the car.

"But it seems that it's already out of my hands."

"It would seem so."

"You should know that he isn't ordinary. Whatever act of sentimentality he is performing for you, it isn't sustainable. Even with Irene Adler, he was briefly involved, infatuated even, but it isn't in his character to maintain that."

"You mean to say it isn't in yours."

"We are not so different, my brother and I."

Rebekah sipped her own tea and smirked. "Different enough, so he tells me." Mycroft glowered, and Rebekah felt a little thrill of victory. "Tell me, did you ever quite get over the incident at the Porter's Lodge?"

"He told you about that? Hm."

"You know he wouldn't have had to. I am exceedingly thorough when it comes to considering whom to trust."

"And so there was no stone unturned in this case." She smiled enigmatically. Let the old knight think what he would. "He won't know how to do this. He is a creature of thought, of rationale and logic and process. This is a realm that eludes him."

"What, domestic bliss?" Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of tea and sitting in an available seat between Rebekah and Mycroft.

"You yourself have always said you don't have friends, Sherlock. Even as a boy."

"I don't. It's true. I have one friend, John Watson."

Rebekah could feel Mycroft gauging her response to the statement. The problem was, she'd heard it before. She was nonplussed.

"Then why don't you end the charade, Sherlock."

Sherlock held his brother's challenging gaze for a long moment, then apparently conceded defeat. "Very well." He turned to Rebekah, "My dear, you must understand..."

"Oh sod off."

Sherlock chuckled. "Mycroft, I simply can't. And you are off your game." He raised Rebekah's left hand intertwined with his right - and her hand glinted with a gold band.

"Thank God for City Hall and the Church of England." She couldn't help saying it. Sherlock smirked at her. Mycroft shot her a glare.

"Quite." He took a biscuit, looked at it as though it might bite back, and then chewed it. The table was quiet. "But apparently I'm not allowed to plot against family."

"Anymore," jumped in Sherlock.

"Anymore," droned Mycroft.

"Then it's settled." Sherlock said, grinning.

"What, exactly, is settled?"

"We'll give the baby your name, obviously." Sherlock wrapped his arm around Rebekah. Mycroft choked on his food, and so missed the incredulous look Rebekah shot her husband.

"Baby… Sherlock…"

"For God's sake, Mycroft. It's not true. It's not an impossibility, but it's not true." She elbowed Sherlock. "He's just enjoying getting your goat."

"I do not have a "goat" to be gotten." Mycroft took another bite.

"Be careful, my dearest brother-in-law, or one might take that as a challenge." She tightened her mouth in minor annoyance when Sherlock took two biscuits. Digestion vs intellect indeed. "Just be content that you missed Christmas with me this year."

"Sherlock and I have not celebrated Christmas..."

Sherlock looked chagrined. "I have for the past several years, actually. John started that, and then this year..." He glanced at Rebekah, who was already chuckling.

"When do you think the man was capable of proposing? He'd had a fair bit of eggnog. The fire was on. He turned to me and said, all sweetly, 'Do you think it would be appropriate to set a date?' No ring, no down on one knee. It was absolutely perfect and nearly without sentiment. You might have approved, Mycroft."

Mycroft was about to say something, but his phone rang. He scowled at it, then back at them. "I have to take this. It has been... a pleasure." He stood and picked up his cane. "Sherlock." He nodded. "Mrs. Scott."

"Holmes," she corrected him quickly. It did give her such glee to do that to Mycroft.

He tightened. "Rebekah."

When the door closed behind him, both Sherlock and Rebekah laughed. "He couldn't bring himself to say it."

He caught the flash of hurt in her eyes behind the laugh. He touched her shoulder, as much sentimentality as they allowed between them most of the time. It wore Sherlock out otherwise. "Mrs. Rebekah Holmes. Has a nice ring to it doesn't it?"

She smiled again, genuinely. "Admit it, you just married me to inherit my brother's networks."

"I admit nothing." He kissed her lightly. "Now let's get some dinner. John mentioned that we may have a case coming by later."

Rebekah finished her tea. It never ended with Sherlock. And that was something that seemed to be suiting her just fine.


End file.
